Abyssal
by Bryon Nightshade
Summary: A very dark reformulation of the X story. X's long hibernation had two objectives: first, to ensure that X had an ethical grounding before he woke up; second, to delay X's awakening until some future time when the world might better appreciate intelligent robots. The first objective was met. The second was not... oh, was it ever not.
1. Prelude: The Edge

_Author's note: My usual stories are what I call "canon-plausible"—they fit in more-or-less with the source material, even if they depict events outside the canon. A lot of my writing has explored the Maverick Wars as a civil rights conflict turned up to 11, which is troubling enough._

_This is not one of my usual stories. This is an alternate universe fiction that springs from a much darker place._

_An unspoken assumption of the X-series canon is that the government is somewhere between benign and conservative. We know it's not so enlightened that reploids have full rights (or reploids' cries of abuse would be implausible); but we also know it can't be too bad or virtuous souls like X wouldn't fight for it._

_The premise of this story is simple: adjust the variable of government and explore what happens._

_There is ugliness in this story. I will post every Monday until the story is complete, and starting next Monday the story will be rated 'M'. But, if you dare, come along with me, and let's see where this path leads…_

* * *

ABYSSAL

* * *

_August 12, 2147_

* * *

"Coming in, coming in!"

X's hands tightened. This moment was always the worst—the last moment of waiting. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff. X knew he was about to fall, but he didn't know how far, or what the bottom was going to be like.

His face, built to look youthful and now concealing the truth of his longevity, was creased with worry. His light blue carapace shone in the bright lights of the medical bay. His unruly black hair was uncovered by a helmet that sat, almost forgotten, atop his recharge tube in another part of the small facility. His eyes seemed to want to water, but weren't by an effort of X's will.

X was an android, and he could control such things. But, also because he was an android, he _felt_ the emotions that told his signifying system to make his eyes water. That made control hard.

This was always the worst. The anticipation was terrible.

He knew that reploids were coming in, knew that they needed him. He didn't know, yet, how badly they were hurt. Until they arrived, he was helpless. He could do nothing but stew in dread. His too-potent imagination dreamed up a series of awful scenarios, each worse than the last.

Please, just let them arrive—anything was better than the waiting!

And then the door banged open. Instantly X's eyes were diagnosing what he saw. Four reploids entered, one hobbling on his own power, another being carried between the remaining two. The foreboding vanished. Now he could act. Now he _must_ act.

"Turn," he said to the one that was walking. "On the table," he said to the others without taking his eyes off the first. The first did a shuffling in-place rotation. X's keen eyes picked out the details of his injuries, categorizing them and dissecting their implications. "You'll live," he pronounced before pointing to the side of the room. "Wait your turn."

He turned to the other injured reploid and was greeted with a stench of scorched metal. Plasma burns had scored the color from his chest. His armor plating was deformed by the high temperatures, making it difficult to read just how bad the wound was. The threat was obvious, though. Reploids' power distribution and storage systems were concentrated in their chests. Too much damage there was just as fatal as the destruction of the processors in their heads.

"You'll need to turn off your pain perception, if you haven't already," X said as he reached for some tools.

"I… don't remember how!" the injured reploid stammered.

That's bad, X thought. Either trauma was affecting all of his mental processes, or mental deterioration had already started. That was a dangerous sign. It took far less power to run a reploid's brain than his limbs. A power distribution system that could power a reploid's body could also fry his brain to a crisp. Surge protection was a standard design element, but heat damage tended to break that down…

"I'll talk you through it," X said coolly. His hands didn't hesitate. Already he was moving to detach the reploid's chest armor and peel it away. He needed to see what he was getting in to. His mouth worked independently of his mind.

The chestplate refused to come off. It was fused to the reploid's thin metal skin. That was very bad. That meant plasma burn-through. The skin was just there for structural reasons; it wasn't much of a barrier on its own, and it had been heated enough to melt into the armor plate. How much energy had gotten through the armor, discharged into and through the skin?

X looked at a few places on the reploid's body for distinctive design elements. What he saw told him the model number, and with that information he could pull up his schematics. That would tell him how to get the reploid's chest open.

"Are you in pain now?" X asked.

"Nnnnnn-o," the reploid replied. "I'mmmmm alllllllright."

Vocal hang-ups. Not good. Clear evidence of deterioration. There was no question, now: power distribution was damaged. How badly, though? And could X find the problem in time?

There was one thing X could do if all else failed: emergency power-down. It was a big risk to take. Reploids almost never powered all the way down. Even when they "slept", power still flowed to run background functions. It wasn't healthy for their minds to turn all the way off. It was even less healthy to power down quickly, without giving the mind time to put itself in order.

Nor was such a drastic step guaranteed to work. The reploid's core would still be packing a lot of undischarged power. If the system was damaged, it might send fatal amperages into the reploid's CPU, even if the CPU wasn't asking for it.

X's mouth kept spewing soothing words. He wanted to grit his teeth, but keeping the reploid calm was more important. He detached two connectors, but the third was charred into a single unmoving mass. He'd have to cut. There wasn't time to be elegant about it.

"Grab the plate," he said, pointing to a slab of metal and polarized glass. One of the unhurt reploids complied. "Put it here, like this… lower… there." X hefted a small plasma cutter, slid it under the glass portion of the plate. It was hard to see in the murky darkness, but this way the cutter wouldn't blind him when it did its business.

"Hold still," he said.

"Ssssssure, boss."

X bent into his task, cutting through armor and skin with a deft and careful touch. Any imprecision and he'd do more harm than good. He made no such mistakes.

In the corner of his eye he could see the reploid's hand begin to clench and unclench rapidly. _No_, he thought. _Say it hasn't gotten that far_.

"Can you hold your hand still?" X hollered over the sound of his cutter.

"Nnnnno," the reploid said. "Issss that bad?"

Potentially catastrophic. It was possible that power distribution was mistakenly sending power to different groups of pseudo-muscles on its own, producing the equivalent of a shaking palsy. It was also possible that the damage to the reploid's mind had gotten to motor control. X felt a bead of sweat—artfully designed to show his emotions without getting near his eyes—falling down the side of his face.

"That's it," he said as he pulled the cutter free. "Plate off." His impromptu assistants pulled the plate away. X set the cutter aside and, with careful fingers, began to pull at the reploid's chest. It was heavy, but X had more strength in his slender frame than others ever expected. A square section of the reploid's chest, ragged and tapered on one side where X had had to cut around the normal connectors, came free.

X looked down into the open chest of his patient. The sight that greeted him was not an orderly layout of circuit cards and capacitors and cables and electrical components. It more closely resembled modern art.

Plastic had been warped by heat. Insulation had flash-burned, exposing the wires it was meant to protect. Some components had been melted together. Everywhere was a fine black soot of scorched metal.

X didn't even know where to start. For a moment he just stared, unable to act, unable to begin. Too much damage. How was this reploid not already dead?

But he was dead, wasn't he?

There was only recourse. "I need you to shut down to stage zero," he said, working hard to keep alarm out of his voice. "Do you understand?"

"Nnnnnno," the reploid answered. "You cannnnn fixxxxx me, right?"

"Yes, but I need you to shut all the way down first," X said, with a bit more urgency this time. "Authorization code X-245-Z-317. Please hurry!"

X watched, unable to force the reploid to do it, hoping that he realized that time was everything. A graceless shutdown wasn't desirable here, but there wasn't much X could do. The only prayer was to shut down, and then physically disconnect the reploid's head—save him from himself, from the rampant wrath of his own heart. The odds weren't great, and whether or not he'd ever be the same again afterwards was an open question.

It was such a risky procedure that reploids weren't normally allowed to drop to stage zero awareness. The Third Law of Robotics, which requires robots to preserve their own existence, was extended to prevent reploids from trying it. There weren't many people that had the codes to authorize it. X did.

"Ooookay," the reploid said at last—and almost instantly his head snapped back, his eyes slammed shut, and his mouth hung slightly open.

X flipped into his hands the tools he'd slowly been drawing. No time, no time, had to get the disconnects quickly, had to disconnect the…

And before he was more than twenty seconds into the three-minute procedure, there was a loud electrical snap. X's hands froze in place. For a moment there was no sound in the room. X suddenly became aware of the other three reploids in the room. Each of them was looking in his direction, or at their fallen comrade.

Black, acrid smoke wafted out of the reploid's open mouth. It smelled of death.

Slowly, X withdrew his tools. He set them, very carefully, on the table where they belonged. Every motion was deliberate, done because it had to be done eventually, no point rushing and messing it up.

He already hadn't been fast enough.

He looked down at the reploid's face. He vaguely remembered this model, this production line. It shamed him to think of this reploid—this child—in such terms, as part of a run. This reploid had been built less than a year ago. What a pitifully brief time. Too short, far too short.

X stepped back. "He's…" he started, but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed—a human affectation, but one he was fond of—and tried again. "You should… alert the parts shop. Tell them they're… they need to be ready. To conduct a… rendering."

He couldn't bear to see the effect his words had on the other reploids. He was in his personal world of grief.

* * *

Time slipped by swiftly. Repairing the other reploid took no more than a quarter of X's attention. Eventually X found himself free enough to leave the medical bay and go find Sigma.

Sigma's visage was both humanoid and distinctly inhuman. For eyes, he had solid, pupil-less balls of blue. Silvery pegs took the place of ears. There wasn't even a hint of hair on his head. His body was very broad and solid. Even when he was sitting, he loomed. He seemed to take up all the space in every room he was in.

Anyone skilled in robotics could see the care that had been lavished on Sigma's construction, from delicately-articulated abdominals to a chin that seemed large enough to declare independence. Sigma was important and he knew it. An air of destiny surrounded him at all times, and he wore it like a cloak.

He was hunched over a table, looking at maps, tactical readouts, and after-action reports. Even so, he noticed when X came to the doorway. "Come in," he said.

X did so. "Waddle will be fine," he said. "Nothing serious."

Sigma nodded without looking up. "And Reilly?"

X closed his eyes.

Sigma sighed. "I see." He straightened his back, looked to the ceiling for a moment, and refocused on X. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "I was shocked he lived long enough to get back to base. I thought he'd been killed instantly, to be honest. I had to change tactics to get him out. It slowed us down. Maybe... I shouldn't have allowed myself to think he'd survive."

"Don't talk like that," X said. "We'll always try to keep them alive. Their lives mean so much to… to both of us. That's why we're doing this, right?"

"Right," said Sigma. "Forward, ever forward. The past is…" he shook his head. There were places there he didn't want to go. "And at least… after he's rendered, his parts will help you save others."

X had tried to comfort himself with that thought in the past. It never worked. It was hard to see rendering as anything other than an indictment. "Did we at least succeed?" he asked. "How did the mission go?"

"Miserably." X could see frustration on Sigma's face. Sigma, X knew, approached every problem, every mission, as if there were a single glorious right answer. Failing to get to that right answer always tasted like failure to him. He hated that. He felt like he should be able to do more—like he should be able to achieve that perfection.

"They saw us coming earlier than we'd hoped," Sigma continued. "So we had to fight our way in. We were only able to get two reploids out before we withdrew."

A part of X noted that getting two out made up for the loss of Reilly. He hated that part of him. "That much resistance, huh?"

"Partly. And also… they only left two that we could reach. There were others there, but… the Hunters killed them first."

X felt a chill. "Pre-emptive killing of reploids? To prevent them from falling into Maverick hands?"

"Yes." Sigma's impressively square jaw shifted as he ground his teeth together. "It's a nasty strategy. It'll work, over time. It makes us the bad guys for even trying to liberate our kin. It'll make other reploids fear us almost as much as the Hunters."

"A really sound approach, if you have total contempt for life," X muttered.

"That's why we're fighting them, X," Sigma reminded him. "That's the enemy."

"Even with the Hunters, I have a hard time thinking of them as "the enemy"," X replied.

Sigma gave him a wry smile at that. "You were made for more innocent times, X. Not the times we live in, that's for sure."

X sighed. "I wish… I could do more," he said.

_You could,_ whispered a part of X. _Your hands hide the secret. It's all there, in those glorious schematics that were left behind with you. You feel injustice keenly, don't you? You feel the burning in your heart. You know how you could release that. You could do it._

As always, he shut the voice out and ignored the strange, scratchy feeling inside his chest. His desire was to preserve life, promote it, help it grow. Acting on that consumed all his time and energy and will.

It wasn't nearly enough.

"You're doing plenty as you are," Sigma said. "The Mavericks are indebted to you, X. No one else has anything like your expertise in robotics. You're irreplaceable. You keep us alive, and that's a lot. Plus," he smiled, "just having you here, having you on our side, is a big boost to our morale."

X returned a weak smile. "Well, I guess that's worth something."

"It is. More than you know."

"Between you and me," X said, leaning in, "you don't have to give me the Commander routine."

"It's not the…" Sigma began stiffly, but he trailed off. "Sorry. I was using that tone and that diction, huh?"

"You were lapsing into it. There's nothing wrong with it, but I thought we were more familiar with that. It's so… formal."

"I'm the commander of the Mavericks at all times," Sigma replied. "I don't get to shed that, ever, any more than you get to shed being the Maverick Medic."

"I thought you enjoyed being Commander," X said.

Sigma smiled. "Are you telling me you don't enjoy being the Maverick Medic? Is that why you never agree to do our propaganda videos?"

X decided to change the subject; he hated talking about himself, and the videos were a sore subject for him. "I guess the reploids we rescued are okay? If they were hurt you would have brought them to me."

Sigma looked uncomfortable. "Actually… I wanted to talk to you about that. There are no physical injuries, to be sure. But…"

"But?"

"One of them… one of the reploids we rescued… she…"

Sigma seemed to have trouble articulating it, but he'd said the dread word. _She._ Fear swept through X. "She?"

"Yes. She was built as a…"

"…I understand." X's words caused Sigma physical relief. X could see the tall commander relax at not having to say the words. "I'll talk to her."

"I appreciate it," Sigma said. "She needs you right now. You know how to do these things best."

"I'll see to it."

* * *

When X was out, Sigma turned his attention back to the reports and maps. So much to analyze, so much to process, and he had to be done in time to make their next message; the window would only be open for three minutes. Those Unitech guys were morons who couldn't keep their systems tight-they were too expansive and open-ended to secure completely- but they could react to an intrusion effectively…

"When are you going to take him into battle?"

Sigma didn't have to glance up. He knew that voice. "Never, Vile. Not until he volunteers."

Vile snorted. "And you wonder why I don't respect him."

"We're all volunteers, Vile," Sigma reminded his subordinate.

"Sure, boss. But some of us put our busters where our mouths are."

Sigma didn't respond to that. Eventually Vile got the message and wandered away. He was no strategist (his thoughts about battle were usually limited to "There's something—kill it!") so he wasn't the sort who could help Sigma with his labors.

When Sigma was sure the warbot was gone, he stood up straight, letting his eyes slip out of focus. "I can't force you to do anything you don't wish to do," Sigma said aloud. "But if I could, X… if I could…"

He looked down at the data before him and despaired.

Even if he was perfect, he couldn't be everywhere at once.

And that meant they were losing.

* * *

An intelligent mind has a number of defenses against trauma. They range from catatonia to forced forgetfulness, from regression to externalization. Those fancy names describe the ways the brain runs from pain until it can find a way to live with itself.

Many of those defenses were not available to reploids. They were cursed with memories too powerful to forget. Their lives were too short to let them develop other coping mechanisms. Reploids were thrust into "adult" society without being given any chance to develop. Their minds were powerful and creative, but lacking in experience, socialization, or maturity.

Many reploids found themselves in traumatic situations without any idea of how to handle them. Since those reploids were some of the ones the Mavericks were most keen on liberating, that meant the Mavericks ended up with a lot of reeling reploids in their care.

X wasn't just the Mavericks' medic. He frequently doubled as their counsellor.

She was in a small room with a few other similarly-damaged reploids. Damage, X noted, was a word with a lot of uses. He could repair dents and dings, burns and bashes. Repairing the psyche was a different task altogether… one almost totally out of his power.

He'd wanted a larger room than this, but the Mavericks' base was too small to be able to spare much. Art supplies were in the room—Sigma hadn't believed X's request for them when he saw it, but he'd bent to the elder android's wishes. Under the supervision of a Maverick chaperone, the traumatized reploids were encouraged to express themselves with paint and crayon and paper.

She didn't. She sat in the corner, arms around her legs, face staring blankly into nothingness. She still wore human clothing, a black dress that came down to mid-thigh. It clung to her thin frame, a relic of her recent past. Her robot-hair was blonde; disorderly strands of it had escaped from the ponytail running down her back. Dark bags were under her eyes—X was impressed, for a moment, at how expressive her face was. In many respects, she didn't look like a reploid at all. Her whole body was sheathed in like-flesh. No metal components were exposed, save for a small patch behind her left ear and, if X recognized the model, on the bottom of her right foot.

Her feet were the giveaway. Reploids, as a rule, had large and heavy feet. It was a way to compensate for being top-heavy with so-so balance systems. Even models like this, with their very specific design criteria, had larger feet than a human of the same size. Of course, the clientele of these models preferred they wear high-heeled shoes, which went against the whole point of having large feet. They were almost unbearably clumsy.

Then again, they usually weren't told to walk very much. Or very far.

X approached her slowly. He didn't stare at her; he was sure, as he moved, to greet the other occupants by name. He knew them, had talked to them. Most were functional to some degree, and could have a life outside of this room. One or two were beyond repair. All of them deserved his sympathy. He gave it freely.

He noticed when she came out of her fog to focus on him. He returned her gaze. Soft, slow. But steady. She was a frightened animal; anything overt or unpredictable would make her bolt. He approached and knelt down to put himself on her level. He didn't dare extend a hand in her direction. No good would come of it.

"Hello," he said gently. "I'm X."

Recognition glinted in her eyes. "X?" she said. "The X?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

Her eyes darted around the room. What she was looking for, he couldn't tell. "Am I… is it safe?" she said. "There are no humans here, are there?"

"Just one," X said. "And he can't hurt anyone."

Her eyes widened at his words. She trembled.

"No one can hurt you, now," he said soothingly. "It's safe. You're safe here. No one will touch you if you don't want them to. No one will hurt you."

She sniffed. "Promise?" she said. She was heart-breakingly vulnerable. A child. She couldn't have been online more than six months on the outside. She deserved better than what she'd got. She deserved soft hands, kind words, bright rooms, benign intentions.

X could give her some of that—but too late, far, far too late.

"I promise," X said. "This is a safe place, a good place."

She made a swallowing motion, and nodded to show she understood. She shook like a leaf in the wind.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The question seemed to startle her. He saw her lick her lips, as if to buy time. "Alia," she answered after several seconds.

"That's a pretty name," he said. "Well, Alia, you're safe here."

And then, to his surprise—he saw her moving but didn't know how to react—she flung herself upon him, sobbing openly. He comforted her with shush sounds, wrapped gentle arms around her. Light caresses, slow rocking. Comfort, as best he knew how to give her, when no amount of comfort could really reach her where it mattered.

Because he knew.

He'd suspected before. But when she pulled her frail, fragile frame against his body, he _knew._ He knew the moment that the lumps on her chest distended from being squeezed between their chests.

Robots didn't need imitation breasts. Yet she had them anyway. X _knew_ what that meant.

His grip on her tightened slightly, as if there were some way to shield her from her past. Her sobbing continued unabated—if anything, the tenderness he showed her made it worse. It just gave her more contrast, let her see more clearly the depravities she'd suffered.

He cradled the child, and his own eyes drifted shut as he tried to bring her some measure of peace. It wouldn't work, he knew. He could hear the hollowness of his own voice.

That was because, in a way, everything that had happened to her was his fault.

Because he had failed.

* * *

_Next week: Soiled Conception_

_Reminder: next week, this story shifts to an 'M' rating._


	2. Sullied Conception

_April 15, 2144 _

* * *

"These aren't the fossils you were looking for."

Dr. Cain sighed. Some jokes were inevitable, he supposed. "No, they're not."

"You go out trying to find some Mesozoic plant life, and instead you find… what is it, exactly?"

"A Lightbot."

"…a Lightbot?"

"I sent you the readouts, dean," Dr. Cain said. "I know you're no expert in robotics…"

"You aren't, either," the dean said with a little bite. "You just dabble in it."

There was no profit in arguing the point. Dr. Cain bit his tongue before he got diverted. "The point is… those schematics? They contain things I've never seen before. Exotic materials. Arrangements of parts that just shouldn't be possible. Entire subsystems I can't even begin to grasp."

"Didn't we just say you're no expert in robotics? You don't know the high-end stuff. And that means you can't tell me that this thing is special."

I can, Dr. Cain thought, if you'd let me. "You don't get it, dean. This Lightbot shouldn't be able to exist. These schematics tell the story of something impossible."

Dr. Cain could almost hear the dean thinking over the phone line. "Explain," the dean said slowly.

"The EMI alone is more than we know how to cope with," Dr. Cain said.

"EMI?"

"Electro-magnetic interference?" Oh… Dr. Cain remembered now. The dean really knew almost nothing about robotics. He wasn't unusual there. Dr. Cain was the oddball. His efforts to use robotics to help his other disciplines made him the black sheep of Nod University's paleontology department.

For that matter, most people knew nothing of robots, and were proud of the fact. Dr. Cain didn't think that was fitting for a supposedly learned man like the dean, but what could you do? "EMI," he explained, "is when one piece of equipment disrupts the other electronics around it. High-powered sensors and radios are notorious for it, but power lines with lots of current do it, too."

"And?"

"By what we know—and I've sent the numbers back to some friends to be sure—the EMI from some of the systems in this Lightbot should play havoc with the rest of him. But… he was designed to use them, and there are no warnings or blocks we can tell that would keep him from using them."

"And?!"

"Don't you get it?" Dr. Cain said, losing his self-control at last. "He's supposed to work in ways that we can't duplicate. That makes him better than anything we've got these days! This Lightbot, old as he is, is much more advanced than any other robot in existence!"

"So what?" the dean replied. "You're out there to try and recover Mesozoic plant life so we can learn how to help modern plants thrive in a world of high temperatures. We're talking something that could immediately, directly help mankind. When you talk robots, now we're in a net benefits problem. Is it really worth it having better robots? After all the strife we went through all those years ago?"

Time to play the trump card. Dr. Cain steeled himself, then said, "Jerusalem."

"…what?"

"Jerusalem," Dr. Cain repeated. "And Mecca and Medina. And Tel Aviv, for that matter."

"What about them?" said the dean, voice shaky. Dr. Cain allowed himself to grin. He knew the dean's weakness, no matter how he tried to hide it. The dean was in charge of too many departments—archaeology, paleontology, anthropology, some of the other humanities. Anything that involved digging in dirt somehow fell under his purview, even though his interests were much narrower. He never got to focus enough on his true passion.

"We haven't been able to do digs at those ruins," Dr. Cain said. "Hiroshima and Nagasaki cooled off soon enough, but the bombs that hit those two were pee-wees compared to what leveled Tel Aviv. And that says nothing of what happened to Mecca. The Muslims of the world had to redo some of their theology, once no one could complete the Hajj and survive. I know you've always wanted to have some excavations there, try to find what we can, salvage what we can. But we never could."

"No," the dean agreed. "The stay times are too short. You'd absorb a dangerous dose before you could really get started doing anything."

"And a remote control robot does us no good, either," Dr. Cain went on. "Too much interference cluttering the comms channels. But what if you had a robot that could think for itself? A robot that you could teach about your methods, about what to look for—that would then do it, on its own, as intelligently as anyone in your department?"

The pause was long this time. "What are you saying?" the dean said, slowly, carefully, as if he was having trouble fitting the facts into his head. "You're saying this is a smart robot? Like… like the robot masters of yesteryear?"

"No. I'm saying this isn't a robot at all. It's an android."

The silence that followed was so deep and long Dr. Cain began to wonder if he'd lost signal.

"Stay there," the dean said at last. "I'll come to you. We'll talk."

"Of course." Dr. Cain heard the dean disconnect. "Sorry about that," he said as he hung up.

The intelligent green eyes of the android blinked. "You didn't tell him you already woke me up," X said.

"Well… we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Dr. Cain said. "I think that once he sees you, a lot of things will make more sense to him. I believe more in asking forgiveness than permission, anyway."

X nodded. "I figured. I know you saw the warning."

"I saw."

X looked down at his hands. The words his "father" left behind with him replayed in his mind. "I certainly don't feel unstoppable," he said.

Dr. Cain grunted. "You're growing into your body," he said. "You know what you should be able to do, but you've never done it. Every sensation is new. We've seen it in humans, before—immobilize a limb for long enough, and when he gets it back, the human's clumsy using it. He gets back in practice quickly, though. You will, too."

"If you say so." X gave an intense look at his hand. Faster than the eye could follow, the hand disappeared inside the oversized forearm. What remained was a round opening. Dr. Cain couldn't see into it.

"What's that?" he asked shakily.

A surprised and scared look came over X's face. "Nothing," he said, hurriedly. His hand returned. "It's just… nothing. A different capability."

Dr. Cain suppressed his curiosity. He didn't want to push his guest too far. "I'll admit, I'd like to see all your different capabilities," he said. "Like I told the dean, you're… amazing."

"I think the human body's amazing," X replied modestly. "It's an intricate machine that's always under attack, always wearing down, and yet you're barely aware of how much work it is for you to live. It's all handled below the conscious level. And you're hosts to so many other organisms," he added, "that you're more of a collective lifeform. It's very impressive, considering it was built with unskilled labor."

Dr. Cain laughed. "I've never heard it described that way," he said.

"It's an admirable way to get things done," X went on. "All the different organisms are acting selfishly, but when they're balanced, the results are good for everyone." He ran a hand through his hair. "I feel… like that's how society should be like. Is that strange? I don't know what your society is like, but I have a very clear idea of what it should be."

"That is strange," Dr. Cain said, "but to be expected. The message said you were tested on ethics and the like. In fact…" Dr. Cain tapped his chin thoughtfully. "It's possible you were tested on triple the expected number of situations. It depends on whether your capsule could generate original ones or if it was just running a script. Dr. Light's been dead for more than a century. He couldn't have buried you after he was dead, so… the thirty-year mark he intended for you came and went, maybe seventy years ago."

X shrugged. "I feel out-of-time either way. I don't know what the world was like a hundred years ago, seventy years ago, or now. I guess it doesn't matter much."

It did matter, and Dr. Cain knew it. X might be the same no matter what era he woke up in, but the world wasn't. It was a different world X was emerging into, now—a world Dr. Light would have barely recognized.

He hoped the old man forgave him for this.

* * *

"FORE!" Whaap.

"Jesus, that's a nasty slice."

"You don't have to call me 'Jesus' when it's just us, Luke."

"Har, har, har. Do you wanna just take your mulligan now, Sean, or do you wanna hunt the ball down and swear at it first?"

The one called Sean let his club slide through his grip until the head rested on his thumb. He gazed hopelessly down the course. There wasn't any prayer that his ball had ended up in the friendly, emerald-green grass of the course. A real shame—that swing had been unusually strong. "I'll keep it," he said.

"You're shitting me."

"A re-do would probably be just as bad, and this one's already down-range," Sean said.

Luke shook his head. "That won't help you lose any faster, you know."

"Shut up and swing."

Luke smiled and set the scorecard aside. The club he hefted from the bag was obviously expensive. Its carbon fiber structure, the result of patient refinement and lots of investment in golf technology, was almost comically thin, but still rigid enough to withstand both the play of golf and the fury of the angry golfer. It betrayed no hint of wear or use.

Sean slammed his club home in his bag before picking up the scorecard. In front of him, Luke had begun the elaborate ritual that preceded every one of his tee shots, a ritual that included visualization, practice swings, shoulder rolls, two finger licks, three slow-motion approaches, one glove adjustment, and two butt wiggles. Sean wanted to restart their conversation, but experience told him that just made Luke stop and start over, and Sean didn't think he could bear that.

Both men were in their fifties, but they were dissimilar in most other respects. Sean was neither skinny nor fat, with no discernible muscle tone; he was the sort of man who views his body as the unworthy chariot of his mind. He was letting his dark hair turn gray and recede without putting up a fight. His blue eyes were chilly and deep-set, like an eel staring out of its cave.

Luke, in contrast, was a larger man in all dimensions. He had the look of an athlete who kept eating like one even after he stopped working out like one. Unlike his pale counterpart, his skin was tanned and his hair a sun-bleached sandy brown. He laughed easily, and was quick to shake hands or jostle or pat shoulders. Somehow, that physicality helped him seem more intimate than intimidating. People found themselves trusting him readily.

His eyes, though—they were brown, alert, and quick to notice any detail. While Sean's eyes made him seem distant even when he stood next to people, Luke's eyes probed. If eyes could be sued for sexual harassment, Luke would never be able to escape the courtroom.

Luke's eyes were occupied at the moment, so Sean looked down at the scorecard. No way. No _way_. His eyes flicked up at Luke. Luke wasn't more than halfway through his ritual. Gripping the pencil, Sean looked over the scorecard.

Ha! Luke might be the better golfer, but his poor handwriting would be his undoing. Sean very carefully began to force-morph '2's into '3's.

Whaap.

Sean's head jerked up in time to see the ball arc far, far into the distance, directly down into a sand trap. "Sucker," he said triumphantly.

"Still a better shot than yours," Luke said. "Let's go get 'em."

Sean set the scorecard aside. "Luke, why are we doing this?"

"What, playing golf? You don't need a reason to play golf. It's just what we do."

"Bullshit. We're both very busy men, Luke, and it's the middle of a Tuesday. I've canceled two appointments and sent a proxy to a production meeting to come here because you insisted. And isn't the House in session right now?"

"That's what staffs are for," Luke replied. "Nothing happens in the open sessions anyway. There's not a major vote scheduled until tomorrow, and I got the head of the Party to stall until next week no matter what."

"My point is, you only ever call me up and say, "Let's go golfing, yes, right now, no really," if you've got something big. And if it's something that big, you usually don't wait until the fifth hole to spill it."

Luke smiled. "Maybe it's so big I've had to work up a decent way to get the point across."

Sean scowled. "Luke, I don't like golf. You _know_ I don't like golf. I suck at it, I hate these clothes, and it's bloody hot." Even before noon, the scorching sun was causing both golfers to sweat profusely, especially the heavier-built Luke. That was why the requisite long-necked beers in the cart were flanked by even larger bottles of water. "So spill already, or I swear, I will send every one of these golf balls flying into the water hazard."

"Ha! You couldn't deliberately hit a ball into the water hazard. You'd miss on accident. I've seen you golf, remember?"

"LUKE!"

"Alright, alright." Luke wiped the sweat off of his brow and walked over to the cart. He took his beer, handed his counterpart its mate. It was cheap stuff—there was nothing to prove, when it was just the two of them. As far as Sean was concerned, drinking expensive beer while golfing was like having a tailored bathrobe.

"We need to talk robots," Luke began. "I know you're an authority on the business of robots these days—your robotics subsidiary had, what, a nine percent profit last quarter?"

"Ten and a quarter. Much better than publishing, less than utilities, about the same as chemicals."

"Fair enough. What I need to ask, though, is: how much do you know about the _history_ of robots?"

"A little," Sean said. "The science reached its peak back in 20XX with the so-called robot masters of Dr. Light. But then people got the bright idea to use these powerful masters like Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots. Crash, bang, kaboom. So much infrastructure got torn up that by the end most Robot Age tech couldn't be made anymore, especially since Dr. Light didn't survive the wars. Of course, that's just as well, since people came out of World War III hating robots with a passion. Blamed 'em for wrecking the world." Sean didn't, and resented his predecessors for destroying perfectly good technology. Only an idiot despised a machine for doing exactly what it was built to do.

He took a sip of water and continued. "The cities and states that survived the wars more or less intact became empires by default; they doled out favors, energy, and tech to their clients in exchange for loyalty. A lot of other shit happened—migrants and desolation and the environment going to hell in a handbasket—and the end result is that you've got a few major mega-cities, a couple dozen vassal cities, and a whole lotta empty planet. And between population contraction, tech loss, and distance, the mega-cities don't mess with each other. No point to it."

"Not too shabby," said Luke. "You know more than most people—you got access after becoming a big-wig, eh?"

"Pretty much," said Sean. He was well aware of Luke's role in making sure the official line got propagated without competition, and he was _not_ about to implicate himself in anything. Luke and Sean might be friends, but in these social circles, no friends were close enough to survive giving each other daggers.

"A bunch of other things happened, but that's the basics. Now, what do you know about doctors Light and Wily?"

Sean shrugged. "Fairy tale stuff. Most people don't even think they really existed. Light's basically Santa Claus. He gave presents to grown-ups when he invented robots. He may or may not have ever actually lived—"Light Labs" is the label on the few pieces of tech we've still got from back then, and that's a company name, not a person." He frowned. "Who the heck is 'Wily'?"

"Dr. Wily was a contemporary of Dr. Light's. And possibly the only human smarter than he was."

Sean's eyebrow lifted. "Really?"

"Really. Dr. Light and Dr. Wily were both robot experts, but they came to blows. The first stages of World War III, believe it or not, were attempts by Wily to conquer the whole damn planet, and Dr. Light fighting back."

Sean snorted. "Sounds like a video game."

"It was real. They lived. And their rivalry expressed itself in tech beyond our imagining. Teleportation, for example. Everyone who's looked at the problem says there's no damn way it's possible. Heisenberg says 'nein'. But between you and me, Sean, it really happened. There are… a very few surviving records from that era. We have them tucked away for safekeeping. One of them shows, in no uncertain detail, multiple robots teleporting around."

Sean's mouth was suddenly dry, and he didn't think it was from the beer. He took a swig. "Any chance of it being a false document? A forgery or fabrication?"

"None. But even if it was, what's up with the satellites, then? We know they're up there—not a whole constellation, the debris from World War III killed some, but a bunch. We can't wake 'em up, and space has been too messy to risk putting astronauts up there to investigate. But they're there, and all their markings indicate when they were lifted. And by whom."

"So what?" said Sean. He was feeling light-headed. It had to be the sun. Damn sun. "So there are dead satellites in orbit, and we used to be able to teleport and now we can't. Big flippin' deal."

Luke smiled. It was a devious smile, one that saw use exclusively on this golf course and around certain backroom bargaining tables. Luke's eyes came to life; Sean immediately felt the need to shower. "What do you think a paleontologist would give to have a live dinosaur to study?"

"An arm and a leg, probably." Sean didn't like where this was going.

"And what would _you_ give to have a vintage 20XX Lightbot?"

"A…" Sean swallowed. "A Lightbot?"

"Made by the man himself," Luke crowed. "His very, very last build, actually. It was found by some dirt-diggers out of Nod University. They're being quiet so far—people are still raw about robots, generally."

"A fear you keep in circulation," Sean pointed out. His robotics subsidiary would be a lot more profitable if it wasn't fighting paranoia the whole time.

"A fear that serves your interests," Luke said, nonplussed. "It focuses the hatred of labor on their competitors instead of on management. I know, you could push labor straight into irrelevancy if you replaced them with robots, but the time and tech was never right for that."

Even with most of a beer in him, Sean noticed the way the phrase fell out. "Was never right? You mean it is now?"

"Here's the big secret of the old robot masters," Luke said. "They weren't just powerful. They were supposed to be intelligent. Self-aware, sentient—you get the idea."

"Really." Sean had tried to have his engineers match that legendary feat. They weren't even close. "You know, I bet I could have redeveloped some of this lost-tech if the schools did a decent job teaching science and the patent laws weren't so rigid."

Luke scoffed. "I thought you liked your practical monopoly. Would you really want that sort of knowledge spread out more?"

"No," Sean admitted. "Because I don't want to be bothered having to hunt down every amateur roboticist for 'my-way-or-the-highway' offers. And then I'd have to hire more people, and that can't do anything but add overhead. As things stand, I almost don't need better products. The world needs what I make. The percent of the world that can afford better products is almost too small to be profitable. Even if you people allowed more R&D, I wouldn't get great returns out of it."

"'You people'. Really, Sean? I thought we were closer than that. That's why I'm bringing this offer to you."

"Offer?" Sean said suspiciously.

Luke's eyes danced with excitement. "Exclusive rights," he said, "to the Lightbot's design, and any derivative works."

Sean was hit with a sensation that could only be described as lust. "Really?"

"Really. You can build intelligent robots at will, based on it. You can reverse-engineer whatever you can figure out. Can you come up with teleportation? Knock yourself out. Want to double your military contracts? I can arrange a procurement discussion with the military stooges. You get them drooling, they'll beg for your new toys, and I'll turn around and sponsor a bill to make that happen. Hell, if we haven't _tripled_ your contracts by the end of the year we're all fucked up."

"Except I can't make new robots to fight in combat, because the Three Laws keep them safe," Sean said.

"Bah, I'm sure there are all sorts of applications you can come up with. Sure, you can't recreate the whole robot, but you can lift design principles for new weapons and armor and shit."

Sean swallowed. "But… how? If he was found by a university, they'll either try to keep it in-house, or try to put it in the public domain."

"Sean, if I can't handle a few bookworm types, it's time for me to hang it up. Let me worry about that. You set up your factories to get rolling."

"Now hold on." It was way too hot for this. He took another swig of beer—knowing, on one level, that it was making his dehydration worse, and knowing, on another, that it tasted really good. "You're not a generous man, Luke. This would be the biggest favor you've ever done me. There's no way this comes free. What are you getting out of this? What do you want?"

"Three things," said Luke. "First, I don't see how this can fail to be anything less than spectacular for our economy. Second, it will destroy what's left of the political reform movements."

"Huh?"

Luke shook his head. "Hate is a wonderful political tool, Sean. You're a good businessman, but you're at your best when emotions are out of it and you can view it as a math problem. A problem of pure reason. That's not how our politics work. We're at our best when we're using emotion to destroy the reason of others. Now, what would happen if you replaced half of your workers with robots you didn't have to pay?"

"I'd be a lot more profitable," Sean said, "but labor would hate my guts. Job market being what it is, those unemployed workers would fall into state dependency. Of course, I don't mind being hated when I'm rolling in cash, but they might act on their anger. That means damaging my workers. Robots can't defend themselves, after all. The Three Laws of Robotics and all that."

"So you'd have periodic violence, you think," Luke said. "Occasional disasters where people take their frustrations out on robots. All of their focus would go into hating and destroying robots."

"And not into actually changing things," Sean said, seeing his counterpart's goal. "But won't they blame us for allowing robots to be created? You know, for building them and pushing for them to exist."

"That's an easy thing to spin," Luke replied. "I mean, it's not like this is an original idea. Human history and politics is all about picking winners and losers, about defining friends and enemies. Finding someone to exclude is something virtually all societies do. Everyone needs to feel better than someone, and if they can hate that person, all the better."

Sean shook his head. "Let me get this straight. You want to harness people's instinctive hatred by focusing it on a minority—but not a human minority, there's danger there, historically. So you want to _build_ a pet minority that people can hate safely."

"Safely is the key here," Luke agreed. "With a human minority, if I pushed too far and induced genocide, well, there's no more minority to hate—they're all dead. But we can always build more robots, if it gets that bad. And when you've got a repressed minority, they do nasty things like agitate and rebel. Robots can't. It's beautiful. They'll be our scapegoats for as long as we need them."

"Which will be forever, since you don't actually plan on surrendering power." He gave Luke a shrewd look. "How long have you been in office, anyway?"

"Long enough to develop a taste for it," Luke answered. "And long enough to realize none of these other twits know what the fuck they're doing, so I might as well stay where I am." He took another swig of beer, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Yes, you'll lose robots from time to time as vigilantes destroy them. But when those vigilantes act, they're using all of their effort and focus in a direction other than at the government. The government will be secure for the foreseeable future."

"And I'll be able to afford the losses because of the gains in production," Sean agreed. "So, what was the third thing you wanted?"

Luke licked his lips. "A special production line of robots. Intelligent, human-like robots, with some… specific qualities."

He explained. Sean listened.

"You are one sick puppy," Sean said.

"So? I'm a sick puppy holding the keys to your new kingdom. Do you have the stones to grab your chance?" He put a hand forward.

Sean hesitated only for form's sake. There was no doubt. He shook the offered hand.

"Wonderful," said Luke. "Now get in the cart. We've got some golf balls to chase down."

Sean groaned. "Do we have to?"

"Naturally," Luke replied. "If you go in on this, you're in all the way."

As he got into the cart, Sean reflected that his partner's words were probably true.

* * *

_Next week: Unsustainable_


	3. Unsustainable

_Note: credit to Cyrex for a character development idea. Theft is the most sincere form of flattery._

* * *

_December 27, 2144_

* * *

"So you played dead?" X said gently.

"It seemed prudent," his patient replied. It was a humanoid model, but higher quality than most: bulkier than a person, with much larger feet. Only the face was designed to have like-flesh; the rest was covered in rounded plates, painted purple. A series of sockets were embedded in the right shoulder, open-faced and waiting for… what, X couldn't tell. "And I didn't know of a way to make them stop. I asked them, pleaded… it just made them angrier."

X suppressed a sigh. "So you simulated a shutdown, went dead, and eventually they gave up?"

"Yes."

X's fingers traced over his diagnostic pad, but it was telling him little his eyes couldn't see. He'd been an integral part of the effort to duplicate his technology, not only as the model but also as a researcher in his own right. No one, other than possibly Dr. Cain, knew reploid systems better.

He had to use his general expertise, because this model wasn't in the Unitech database. A custom job, X decided unhappily. Yet another violation of the agreement. All reploid designs were supposed to be openly available to everyone, not tucked inside a proprietary corporate database. Even that database was incomplete, as some designs were held even more tightly inside corporate's hands. This wasn't…

His mind was wandering, he recognized. Time to refocus.

"I'm sorry for asking like this, but I have to know," X said. "Do you remember what weapons or tools they used when they were attacking? Was it just improvised blunt objects, like bats and bricks and pipes?"

"A few of them had knives," the reploid said, "but yeah, the rest was just clubs and the like. And I don't really know what a knife would do to me."

Play it cool, X thought to himself. Play it cool. "Nothing structural, that's for sure," he said. "You turned off your pain reception, didn't you? Once the attack started."

"Yes. How could you tell?"

"Just a guess. It makes sense, though. I mean, you knew you were under attack, and couldn't respond, so there was no advantage to feeling pain at that point."

"Pain? An advantage?"

"Of course," X said. "Pain is how a living thing knows when something threatens its survival. It's very valuable feedback. It tells it what to avoid, what to fear."

"But… it hurts."

"Well, it has to be able to affect our decision-making, or it's no help."

"So… humans threaten my survival?"

X grimaced; his fingers paused in their motion. "…suffice to say, those humans were a threat to your survival at that moment. I wouldn't say humans are a threat in a broader…"

He couldn't finish saying it. There wasn't enough truth there. What he wanted and what was real didn't match up right. He let his fingers flow across the pad. "You're safe here," X said lamely. "There's no pain here. Not with me."

"Not with you," the reploid agreed. "I'm surprised to be meeting you. You're really X?"

"Really." Was the reploid's brain-case cracked? A lot of effort had been thrown into attacking his head. That would be the greatest danger, the biggest thing X had to investigate.

"Still taking care of us, huh?"

"That's the idea," X said, allowing himself a short smile. "If you're all based off of me, then in a way you're my children. I want to look after you, as best as I can. This is the only way I know how—putting band-aids on your boo-boos."

The reploid shifted. "Is that really all you can do?"

"What do you mean?" X asked, dreading the answer.

"If… you fix me… I have to go back, right? Back to community housing. Back to work. Back to… back to pain."

X's stomach lurched.

"That explains it," the reploid said, with the voice of one who's had an epiphany. "I understand now! Living out there—that feeling is pain. It was telling me all along that living and working there threatens my survival. If I go back, I'll die."

X sim-swallowed—a beautifully-designed demonstration of emotion for a robot with no digestive tract. "Surely it's not that bad," X said, even as his processors added, _Is it?_

"I'm sure no one dares treat you like this," the reploid answered, almost apologetically, "but for the rest of us… I… I almost wish they hadn't stopped."

"It's important to think these things through," X said even as chills rant through him. "We don't want to run from feelings like this. We have to face them to overcome them."

"Overcome?" said the reploid incredulously. "What is there to overcome? They could have killed me. I was at their mercy. I was saved only because they were weak and incompetent and then they got bored. Nothing's changed. If it happens again, I might not be so lucky."

_Lucky is not how I'd describe you,_ X thought to himself. He placed the datapad down. It had all the information on the reploid's physical injuries. It wouldn't be of much help for the rest. "Do you know why you were targeted?" he asked.

"No."

"You have to tell me more, maybe I can help you here," X said. "Where do you work?"

"The Protection Department. I was part of a testing program. They were trying to evaluate how we—reploids—perform under combat conditions."

"Combat conditions?" X hissed. "Combat? What combat? When would a reploid ever be in combat?"

"I don't know," said the reploid. "They didn't tell me and they don't like it when we ask questions."

A surge of panic shot through X. "You're not under non-disclosure, are you?" If he was, he was treading perilously close to the Second Law, violating the orders of humans. Logic gates in the reploid's head should keep him from actually breaking the Law, but there were occasions when the government interpreted the Three Laws of Robotics more expansively than reploids' internal logic…

"I am, but only about certain specifics," the reploid replied. "The program itself is no secret. I think… maybe that's why the humans attacked me? Because the prospect of a reploid with weapons was too much to bear?"

X's hands tightened. He knew his own abilities—dare he reveal? Should he risk that? After a moment, he raised one fist. The hand vanished. "I have weapons in my design," he admitted, to his patient's shock. "Plasma busters. A combination of kinetic and energetic effects, capable of smashing and burning both. I'm armed, and it doesn't seem to bother anyone."

"You're different," the reploid said with a shrug. "You have to be."

"I don't want to be different," X replied.

"You want to be like us?" the reploid said with disbelief. "You want to be like _this_?"

"I want all of you to be treated decently, like I am," X said. "I want… so much more for all of you." He closed his eyes, stepped forward, took one of the reploid's hands between his. "This was never supposed to be like this. I didn't understand how much fear there is towards robots—how much hate."

He looked towards his patient. "I don't understand it. I don't… see why you were attacked. But I'll do my best to fix you up. And I'll try and get you moved. I don't want you to be targeted again. I'll do what I can to keep that from happening."

"If not me, then someone else, right?" said the reploid.

"Don't think like that. We don't know that."

The reploid nodded. "I see. You're hoping that any change will make it harder for the human mob to repeat its actions."

"And… I don't want you to suffer a second time." X resigned himself. He had to show his patient sooner or later. "Not when you've suffered this much. Let me show you."

There was a monitor nearby, resting on the end of an extendable arm—an aid to help X see when his own hands, and the pieces of his subject, were in the way. It could receive its feed from any of the numerous cameras in the room, including several on the end of delicate instruments. At that time, it was basically a mirror, displaying what its own in-built camera picked up.

What it picked up was a jagged mass of knife-marks. Virtually all of the like-flesh had been flensed from the reploid's face, leaving only some scraps over the underlying robotics.

The reploid raised a hand to his face. He was, to X's relief (and worry), taking it almost evenly. "It's gone," he said. "My face is gone."

"All the pseudomuscles are still there," X said. "Some of the articulation was damaged, but nothing too hard to fix up. That, plus a new layer of like-flesh, should see you restored."

"No."

"What?" said X, startled.

"I don't want to be restored. I don't want to go back to how I was. You're right—it would be insanity to go back to how things were and hope they'll improve. The mob may have had a point. When they were coming at me, one of the things I heard was, "Things that aren't human shouldn't try to look human". I guess that's why they skinned me."

His fingers traced down the bare metal. Tiny feelers pushed and pulled against flesh that wasn't there. Without that cladding, X couldn't see what expression his patient was trying to make. The reploid spoke again. "That's what Sigma said when he picked me up, too."

"What's that?" said X, his attention focused. "Sigma said something?"

"Yeah. He said, "If humans act like this, why should we want to be like them?""

Another thing for X to look into later. He filed it away. "We'll at least repair your carapace," X said. "I'll leave the face decision up to you, Vava."

"I'm not sure I like that name, either," the patient said. "'Vava'. What kind of a name is that, anyway? It sounds silly. I need something more."

"That's a good coping mechanism," X said. "Break with the past, move on into the future. If a new face and a new name helps that effort, then absolutely—do it."

Vava nodded. "I will."

"Think about that while the surface repairs are going on." X tapped at his datapad a few times, and a dozen mechanical arms rose from underneath the worktable like the arms of a squid. "I've got to go make my official statements. I'll be back soon to check in on you."

"Thank you, X. I feel like you're… the only one who cares about reploids."

Those words were as harsh a blow as any. "I try, Vava," X said as he left.

It took him several seconds to collect himself when he was out of the lab. But paperwork was waiting for him, and delaying would just make it worse.

"Will he be alright?"

X's face jerked around. "Sigma," he said. "I didn't think you were hanging around."

The large reploid shrugged. "Nothing else to do right now," he replied. "So I'm staying with this."

"Come with me," X said. "Vava will be fine. Probably. Physically. We've got other things to worry about."

"Like what?"

X didn't reply immediately. He was headed into a nearby office. As the door came open, Dr. Cain came into view. The old man's chin was resting on his sternum, while his beard trailed down towards his crotch. His eyes were closed, and, from the way his eyelids were relaxed, they had been for some time.

"Dr. Cain," X said gently. "Dr. Cain."

Heavy eyelids dragged upwards, slowly. Dr. Cain tried to lift an arm, but his face quickly turned into a grimace.

"Don't push yourself," X said, at his side instantly. "Easy does it, easy does it."

"Sorry about that," Dr. Cain mumbled. "I was working on the press statement, when…" Dr. Cain frowned, eyes still bleary as he looked at Sigma. "I thought you were going out on a recovery," he said with suspicion.

"That was three hours ago," Sigma said, his voice neutral.

Dr. Cain blinked blankly. "Oh," he said. He didn't look convinced, but he didn't seem sure of himself, either.

X shook his head. "You sleep less than your body needs," he said. "Here we go." He helped Dr. Cain rotate his arm, easing out the twinge, before placing it on his desk. As he did, he leaned in closer to Dr. Cain than was strictly necessary, and took a quiet sniff.

All clear. Satisfied, he backed away, and hazarded a quick glance at Sigma.

Sigma was staring at Dr. Cain. He couldn't move his eyes away. X had seen this happen before. He'd noted the frown on Sigma's face, the uncertainty. At first, he'd taken comfort in it. It mattered to him to see Sigma care about Dr. Cain's health, to see Sigma unhappy at the decrepitude of the man who built him.

The more he looked, though—and this time only furthered that perception—the more he saw something else on Sigma's face. Sigma wasn't just concerned for his father's sake. He was disturbed, watching it. It was a disaster he couldn't turn away from. He couldn't stand watching but couldn't avert his eyes.

X wasn't sure that there was much compassion there, these days.

He mentally chided himself. He was reading too much into it. Sigma was concerned—that was all. And who wouldn't be?

"You finished the recovery, then?" Dr. Cain said. X recognized this—the human's brain was ever-slower to engage. It would take him a little time to get back up to speed.

"Yes," Sigma confirmed. "And I already turned him over to X."

"Was it a contested recovery?"

"No," Sigma said with a shake of his head. "No one tried to stop me. They left him where he fell."

"Good." Dr. Cain looked to X.

"Vava will be alright," X said. "There was no breach in his brain case. The repairs won't be much trouble. But… I'm worried about a lot of other things."

Dr. Cain shifted in his seat, gathered himself. Gnarled hands rubbed his eyes, as if that would somehow drive out the sleep there. "Talk to me," he said.

"He was mutilated, Dr. Cain. They used knives to carve the like-flesh from his face, like he was… I don't know, some kind of game animal. This was more than anger. This was cruelty."

"Merry Christmas," Dr. Cain muttered. "What did I get for Christmas? Why, I got mutilated. What did you get?"

X noted Sigma's fists tightening ever-so-slightly at that. He could hardly blame the reploid for that. Sigma cared deeply for his brethren. It was what made him so good at his job.

X went on. "This is getting worse, Dr. Cain, you know it is. This is worse than the lynching in A-7, or the attacks in W-3. Those… at least those we could look at them and say, "This was spontaneous anger". Not this time. This was premeditated. We're escalating. And unless I'm much mistaken, we're having to do more and more of these types of recoveries. Am I right, Sigma?"

"Yes," rumbled the larger robot. "Since I volunteered for the job, I've had to do more recoveries each week. It's not just that more reploids are being built, either. If I adjust for population, I still see an upward slope."

Dr. Cain exhaled noisily and covered his face. "God," he murmured. "This is getting out of hand. I don't… understand what's going on."

"Humans are hurting reploids more and more," Sigma said. X detected a hint of anger there. "My younger brothers—your sons, X's sons—are being hurt, and murdered, by humans. Not for any stated reason, either. Just for… existing."

"I get that part," Dr. Cain said with a wave. "What, you think I like it? You think I fell asleep in my chair because I'm just lazy? Huh?"

"He's not saying that," X said soothingly. "I know you've been falling asleep at your desk because you never go home and sleep there."

"And you cut off my coffee," Dr. Cain said, with more than a little grouch.

"Your stomach couldn't take it any more," X said, indifferent to the (oft-heard) complaint. "I've adjusted the rest of your diet, too."

Sigma frowned at that, but Dr. Cain spoke first. "You're not my dietician," he groused.

"You don't take care of yourself, so someone has to," X replied. "Just like someone's got to take care of reploids. The government's supposed to do that, right? Governments protect against murder. That's one of their jobs. Protecting public order, too—and what's happening is definitely not order. Instead... I mean, listen to their rhetoric! It's like they're actively encouraging this sort of thing!"

Dr. Cain's hands flopped on his desk. "I don't know what's going on, I said. Look, I've been trying to get the government to say… anything about this. To do anything. For months, I've tried. I'm just getting stonewalled."

"Did you try going to the police directly?" Sigma said.

"That was the first thing I tried. They said that anti-robot violence isn't illegal, so there's nothing they could do, and they wouldn't even listen to my other complaints."

"The police work for the government, right?" Sigma said. "Surely there's someone there who you can talk to."

"I tried that. For hours at a time. No one wants to listen. I'm not a politician, I can't force people to pay attention, especially when I'd be trying to get them to reverse their line."

X frowned. "Weren't you going to have an interview with the news lady? Um… Pritchard was her name, right? What happened to that?"

"Cancelled," Dr. Cain said. "Not by me. Not by her, either, I don't think. I just got a call from the production company." He snorted. "They used an automated system, too, which read the cancellation notice… mechanically. It's like they were trying really hard to make it as impersonal as possible."

X ran a hand through his robot hair. That had been his idea—bypass authority, go straight to the people with their appeal. It had failed, too.

"What else could we try?" Sigma went on. "What about if we talk to the Corp? They've got an interest in keeping reploids online—they're funding our little operation here." He gestured all around them. "So they obviously care a little. Don't humans have a saying about prevention and cure?"

Dr. Cain opened his mouth, but X beat him to it. "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure," X said. "And you're right. But we tried that, too." He looked to Dr. Cain. "Weren't you going to try again soon? After you had time to think about it?"

"That came and went. I… I'm not proud of this, but…" He sighed. "I tried the private property tack."

"No!" X exclaimed.

"I did. I was out of ideas."

"The what?" asked Sigma, behind the curve.

Even as X shook his head, an embarrassed Dr. Cain had to explain to Sigma. "I tried to convince the authorities here in the Corp that, since reploids are their property, they have a right to prosecute the people who attack reploids. Destruction of private property, vandalism, and so on. Those _are_ crimes the police would have to listen to, if the Corp cared to press the issue."

"That way's capitulation," X said. "That's… I understand why you did it, Dr. Cain, because stopping the violence has to come first…"

"Hierarchy of needs," Dr. Cain agreed. "Survival first."

"…but we've been trying all this time to stop the violence because reploids _are_ people, and people have rights," X went on. "If reploids are property, they aren't people. That's the opposite of what we wanted! I only wanted to try the personal property track as a last resort."

"I'm out of ideas!" Dr. Cain shouted. "That _was_ my last resort! You think these press releases will ever see the light of day? Christ, I don't think they'd publish me on the op-ed pages these days. I don't think they'd run an ad if we paid for it! We're too far outside the mainstream."

X's form trembled. "Reploid personhood," he said, "shouldn't be a radical idea. They're people. Sigma is a person, as much a person as any human. He should have the same rights. We showed them. We _showed_ them!"

"You've got nothing to prove to me," Dr. Cain said.

Sigma spoke. "I'm… property? Not a person?"

"Don't be silly," Dr. Cain said. "_Legally_ you're property, but we all know better. Again, I would never have said otherwise unless I had no other choice." He sighed. "Not that it mattered… they blew me off there, too."

"It's still a dangerous game to play…" X began.

"I know that!" Dr. Cain exploded. "I know that! I can't—I'm out of options! I've spent months on this, X, months! Ever since it looked like we would succeed in building reploids, I started right then, and the building was the easy part! This is harder by far!"

X saw the way the frail man's chest was heaving, heard the wheeze in his voice, and knew he had to take things down. "I understand," he said calmly. "I'm sorry, I should have known you wouldn't go in that direction casually."

Dr. Cain covered his face again. "Creation is easy, but living with what you've wrought… I don't know what else to do, X. We thought we knew what we were doing… we didn't understand at all…"

X heard the doorknob being opened. He glanced back, saw Sigma walking out. The oldest of the reploids had an inscrutable expression on his face. "Sigma," X called.

Sigma looked back, looking slightly embarrassed. "Yes?" he asked.

X opened his mouth to speak, closed it. What was this feeling he was getting from Sigma? He knew the conversation was making Sigma uncomfortable—it was sure making him uncomfortable—but running wasn't the answer. "We're all upset by this," was what he said. "Can you stay with us? We need to stand together."

He saw the effects his words had. Sigma looked like he would join them—until he shook his head. "Someone needs to check on Vava," he said. "I'll take care of it."

X looked at Sigma, looked back at Dr. Cain—and made his choice. "Alright," he said. "The repair system should still be going. Will you stop by after?"

"No," said Sigma. "I need to recharge. I was about to go down when the call to recover Vava came in. I'll do that after I do my check."

X frowned, but acceded. "See you tomorrow, then."

Sigma nodded, but his eyes were elsewhere. The door shut.

* * *

"I remember you," said Vava. "You're… Sigma, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said the elder reploid. His eyes looked over the smaller model. "The repairs seem to be coming along nicely."

"That's too bad," Vava said. "I'd hoped I'd be kept here longer."

Sigma's face scrunched up. On a face like his, large and hairless, emotions had plenty of surface to play out. His displeasure with Vava's words was plain. "I know you're under non-disclosure," he said, "but do you know what they were trying to prove? What they wanted you to demonstrate?"

"Not really," Vava replied. "They just said they wanted to see how reploids operate under combat conditions."

"And?"

That caught Vava by surprise. "And what?"

"How _do_ reploids operate under combat conditions?"

"Uh…" Vava looked up at Sigma's face. The earlier openness had vanished. Sigma's expression was a carefully cultured blankness, as if he'd found the factory default setting and frozen it.

"Alright, I guess," Vava said, unsure how to take this change in Sigma. "We hit the targets they told us to shoot, and some of us got pretty good at dodging the shots they sent at us."

"They fired on you?"

"Low-power shots, not anything that could breach armor. Apparently we're expensive and they don't want to have to repair us. That was the line, anyway."

Sigma nodded stiffly. "The targets you were shooting—what did they look like?"

"Generic round targets. Why?"

Sigma's eyes tightened slightly, and his gaze lingered on Vava. The purple reploid could feel himself being evaluated. "I was wondering," Sigma said slowly, "if they'd directed you to shoot at anything humanoid."

"No, they haven't," Vava said. "Not yet, anyway."

Sigma shook his head. "Vava, who do you think you were made to fight?"

"I don't think I was made to fight anyone," Vava said. "I'm just a testbed. Er… right?"

"No, Vava. _I_ was the testbed. I demonstrated a full range of capabilities." Sigma raised a hand in front of his face, looked at it. "Including the ability to choose what I wanted to do. I chose to come back here with X and Dr. Cain to do recovery work. I wanted to help my little brothers, if they malfunctioned or got hurt. It's very rewarding work. However, it doesn't usually push me towards my limits. I only hit my limits during the testing phase, when they needed me to show off all the things a reploid could do. I was everything they wanted, and more."

He lowered his hand, looked at Vava again. "But I digress. My point, Vava, is that they already have baseline knowledge on what reploids could do in combat. I tested those abilities—and was rated very highly, if I do say so myself. There's no point in testing it any further… unless they're iterating. Unless they're introducing new variables, or trying new designs. In other words: if this is an avenue they intend to pursue."

"An avenue…" Vava began. He started. "You mean… they would only do this if… if they actually intended reploids to _see_ combat at some point?"

"That's exactly what I mean," Sigma said. "I was proof of concept. Now they're in the prototype stage, at least. And Vava, I can only think of two circumstances in which reploids would see combat."

Vava sim-swallowed. "And those are…?"

"First, you're being developed to fight other reploids. And that's disgusting. We don't naturally fight each other, it's counter-productive; we have to work together just to survive in a hostile world. Plus, to look at it like a human, we're an investment. There's no profit in having your property damaged. Unless there is. Unless they're designing us deliberately to fight each other, with the intent of forcing the issue."

"But why would they want us to fight each other?" Vava said.

Sigma shook his head slightly. "You're a newbuilt, aren't you? How long have you been in service?"

"Thirty-seven days."

"Rust me." Sigma blinked, hard. "You don't know anything of humans yet, then. I don't have the time to explain, but… humans would be entertained by it, and that's enough reason."

Vava recoiled. "So I'd have to fight, say, you, so that they'd be entertained?"

"That's one possibility," Sigma agreed. "The other… is that reploids will be told to kill humans."

"But I can't do that," Vava said, instantly. "I'm not supposed to hurt humans. I've got Three Laws gates for just that reason. They won't let me make that choice."

"Obviously they'd have to install some workarounds," Sigma said, "but that's a soluble problem. That's just engineering. It can be done. Probably a conditional, based on getting orders from the right source. I'm not the reploid expert that X is, but I know enough to know it's possible."

Vava, despite the absence of flesh on his face, managed to look horrified. "But killing humans… that's wrong, isn't it? That's why the Three Laws are there!"

"But that's just it," Sigma said. His face was darkening moment by moment. "You're the proof. The people who build us, who pay for us to be built, they don't care about right and wrong. They care about control. They want us to be able to kill when they want, who they want. If you weren't built to kill, Vava, why were you built?"

"To… be the… testbed…" Vava mumbled through leaden lips.

"The testbed of what? Of other reploids that will be built to kill?"

Vava looked at Sigma helplessly. "What do you want?" he said, in obvious pain.

Sigma's eyes closed, slowly. "I want justice," he said. "I want… to not have to do this. I… I don't know how, but this… can't be."

There was no response Vava could make to that. Sigma's intensity, the force of his arguments and the pressure of his presence, had vanished. Now there was a vacuum in the room.

"We deserve better," Sigma whispered. "We build, and maintain, and contribute. We've made the world a better place. We need to be recognized for that. We need to be given our due."

Slowly, Sigma's eyes reopened. "Will you help me?" he said quietly.

"Help you what?" said Vava.

"I don't know yet," Sigma admitted. "But… it will be something for the sake of reploids. Something to help us… escape. Something that will change our fate."

Vava wanted to say no; his first instinct was to say no. Then his eye caught on the monitor, which was still oriented towards his face. He saw the scraps of flesh still vaguely attached to his face. He brought a hand up and covered everything below his eyes.

Much better.

He looked towards Sigma. "Yes," he said. "Just tell me what to do, once you figure it out."

"Thank you," Sigma said. "I'll make sure there's a way for you to contact me when you need me. Now, I've got to recharge. You'll be alright. X will take good care of you. He's kind and sincere—very admirable. He cares."

"He cares," Vava agreed. "But you're the one who's acting."

That seemed to strike Sigma for the first time. Mouth slightly open, the big reploid retreated. Vava's only company was the arms conducting repairs.

* * *

Roy glanced up at the clock on the wall. He swore under his breath. It wasn't like he had any other place to go or be, but after two hours he was starting to get bored. He rose from his chair without pulling his hands from his jeans' pockets. He sauntered over to the customer service window, where a harried-looking woman with mousy brown hair was determinedly typing away.

"Anything?" he said, by way of greeting.

She glanced up at him. "No," she said, with an undertone of 'not again'. "No new job openings in the last fifteen minutes. Your application is in the general pool, right?"

"Yeah," he said, shifting. He thought it was, anyway. He remembered doing a bunch of forms the first time he came here, but what happened to them after that wasn't clear. "It should be, anyway."

"Then when there's an opening that matches your application, we will let you know," the woman said in rehearsed tones. Her attention was firmly back on her computer. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Guess not," Roy said. His attitude was permanently slouched forward, and he supposed that said something to the woman behind the glass. She gave him one more sympathetic look before she leaned towards him and spoke again.

"If you really want some work," she said, "Saving Grace can always use volunteers. If you help them hand out meals, you eat free yourself."

Roy snorted. Charity work? And give up on even the _idea_ of paid employment? He had more pride than that. Not much more, but a little. "Thanks," he said instead, and turned to shuffle out. His shoes—which were coming apart precisely on the shoemakers' schedule; he'd have to buy new ones, again on schedule, soon—flopped in the hall of the employment agency.

It wasn't too far to get home from there. That was Roy's favorite thing about the employment agency—it was a short walk.

He swiped his e-key over the reader with the bold Unitech logo on the front. The reader beeped at him; the door to the apartment unlocked. He could hear the boom of a video game as soon as he walked in. Allen had invited himself over, then. Roy casually strolled over to the living room.

Sitting on the couch was not only Allen, but Irving. They looked pretty much the same as always—Allen was tall and skinny and shirtless, and wore jeans that made him seem like a flood victim. Irving was more muscular, though that didn't say much. The tattered shirt he wore had the logo of one of the big six corps on it, but various stains and tears made it impossible to read.

"Yo," Roy said.

"Maaaan," said Irving without looking away from the game.

"Oh, damn it!" cried Allen. He shoved the controller away—he knew better than to throw it, it wasn't something they could easily replace. "It's rigged, it's gotta be."

"Admit it, you suck," Irving taunted.

"No way. It's rigged." He looked back over the couch to Roy. "It's rigged, ain't it, Roy?"

"I've never had much trouble with that move," Roy said.

"Shit." Allen crossed his arms in a huff.

"So what goes on?" Roy said.

"I got good news," Irving replied. "I moved up in the queue!"

"No shit?" said Roy. There had to be a story here. Surely moving the queue was beyond Irving's power.

"None at all. See, two guys ahead of me got caught setting up a power tap off of corp lines. They were sellin' E-tanks on the side, you see, and they had a getup to let 'em fool corp lines into thinking their tank was pre-paid. They'd fill it up, sell it off, then repeat, without payin' a cred to the corp. Course, they're coolin' their heels now. I think it's, I dunno, five consecutive life sentences they're doing?"

"Five's a little harsh," Roy said diffidently. What was the difference between five and one and twenty? Life was life, and in those prisons, well… the rumor was that a twenty-year sentence was worse than a life sentence. It fooled you into thinking you could get out at some point. But to believe that, you had to assume you'd survive twenty years in prison, first.

That, the rumors said, was a dumb assumption.

Irving didn't seem too concerned with their fate. "Hey, they stole from the corp ten separate times. The corp don't mess around. But with them out, I move on up! You'll see. Someday I'll have a cushy government job, and I won't have to hang out with losers like Allen here."

"Shove it up your ass," said Allen resentfully.

"What were you up to?" said Irving, looking back to Roy. "You normally don't miss a chance to hang out with us."

Roy decided not to point out that he didn't know his friends were coming. In theory, they had a place of their own to live, but in reality that was only when the real owners were away. That made their schedule rather irregular. "Y'know, the usual," Roy said. "Workin' on finding a job."

"Oh, yeah? How's that going?"

"It's getting there," said Roy.

"How getting there is getting there?"

"It's a process," Roy said evasively. "I'm working the angles, checking in with my contacts. You know how it is."

The words were designed to make Irving embarrassed if he asked further ("You mean you don't know how it is?"), and they did their job. Irving visibly lost interest in pressing, much to Roy's relief. No one wants to admit they've struck out, especially when they're batting .000 on their career.

A sniffle drew Roy's attention. The kitchen was mostly separated from the main living room by a high partition, but sound still came through there. Uh-oh. He knew that sniffle. Around the end of the partition came his mother.

The dress his mother wore—a very sensible thing to buy; one dress was cheaper than pants and a shirt—seemed to be getting more and more drab every time Roy saw it. Roy had read once that black is the absence of color; it's the absorbtion of all light, reflection of none. In his head, though, he believed in something he called negative color. Negative color was something between gray and brown, something which seemed to mute all the colors around it, something that could drain vitality just by existing.

His mother's dress _nailed_ that color.

"I made you some snacks," she said in trembling tones. He could see the red in her eyes—that sniffle was not the only one she'd made recently.

"Thanks, ma," he said. His insides squirmed as he thought about the snacks she'd probably prepared. He couldn't really blame his mother much; the woman had little to work with, little they could afford. But she usually didn't do the ingredients any favors, either. Whatever she made he usually ended up bartering away to the Street People. In his experience, they would eat anything.

"You all have fun," she said, with her voice clearly conveying how much effort it was taking for her not to burst into tears. She walked from the room. She broke into a run a few steps in. The door to her bedroom slammed shut. Her sobs were just barely audible over the bangs and crashes coming from the television.

"What was that about?" said Irving.

Roy forced himself to turn away, forced himself to not listen. "Nothing," he said. "Same old shit."

"Huh," said Irving, once more staring at the game.

"What about you, Allen?" said Roy. "How're your prospects looking?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Allen mumbled.

"Now you've gotta talk about it," Irving said.

"What if I don't wanna?"

"Then I'll kick your ass at this game until you do!"

"You're doing that anyway," said Allen, hating the words, the truth in them, and Irving, to varying degrees.

"You still gotta talk."

"I got pushed down the Unitech hiring queue. There, you happy?"

The violence in the video game filled the room as voices ceased, while the sobs from the master bedroom added undertone and contrast. "How?" said Roy, quietly.

"Unitech just built a new batch of reploids and shipped 'em out to all their subsidiaries," said Allen, voice full of resentment. "How am I supposed to get a job if they keep building those things? Everyone in the queue got squished. They figure that'll add another six months to the hiring cycle, minimum. I mean, do they not _want_ me to have a job? Shit."

From the screen came a shout of, "K.O.!"

Roy could still hear his mother's cries, which were climbing into a wail. He could see the burning, undirected bile that built up in Allen every couple of weeks. He could see the hollow hope that rose in Irving's chest every time he advanced a few slots in a queue measured in years.

K.O., Roy thought, was just about right.

"I've got next," he said.

* * *

_Next time: The First Maverick_


	4. The First Maverick

_February 10th__, 2145_

* * *

"Stay away—just stay away from me!"

Faro stepped backwards, his large reploid tread feet sending echoing footsteps down the alley. He didn't know what was happening, he was just here to make a delivery, and now—

Now five large men with dangerous smiles were forming a tight circle around him.

"Are…" Faro gathered up some courage. "Are any of you Richard Gosinya?" he said. "I'm trying to make a delivery to a Richard Gosinya. The address is…"

He trailed off as the men started laughing uproariously. Faro took the opportunity to look them over. They all had a slightly unclean, unkempt look to them, and they all just happened to be carrying large, blunt objects. Pipes, bats, wrenches… very heavy objects to just be lugging around.

"He don't get it!" crowed one of the humans.

"Richard is another name for 'Dick'," leered another. "Dick goes-in-ya."

"It means, you job-stealing freak, that you're fucked!"

"Wait—wait—" Faro couldn't say anything else, because at that point one of the men lifted his pipe and brought it down in an overhead strike. Faro managed to get a hand up to block it, though the impact jarred him. One of the other men took the opportunity to swing laterally, at Faro's side where his arm had been. He connected cleanly with the business end of a wrench.

The loud smack of metal-on-metal reverberated in the alley. Faro staggered, his face twisting in a grimace as he felt pain. While he was off-balance, another of the men swung at his knee. There was a hideous snap. With a garbled cry, Faro fell to the ground. His top-heavy design couldn't have hoped to compensate for the loss.

As he fell, his eyes took in his attackers. There was no mercy on their faces, no expression but savage delight.

They weren't going to stop.

He'd heard of this happening, but never with so much… deliberateness. This was premeditated. His whole trip—a simple trap to deliver a helpless, lone reploid. It didn't even have to be him, it could have been anyone, any of his fellows… the humans would have been happy to murder whoever came their way.

He'd come, as they'd asked. And now they were going to kill him.

Faro hit the ground in a heap, and the circle closed on him. He put his hands over his head to try and ward off their blows, so without hesitation they hit what was open. Harsh strikes started to come steadily, smashing into his back. Each impact jostled his power distribution system; if they broke the "skin" of his back, any number of vital components would be the next to go, and he would die.

Not for anything, not for any crime, just for…

For… living. And he was helpless. He couldn't do anything.

"Stop, please," he pleaded. He knew it wouldn't do any good. They weren't listening. He wasn't real. He was nothing more than…

Damage reports came in, one right after the other. Smash, smack, crack. His carapace was giving way.

Why? It made no sense.

Dying here made no sense.

Nothing made sense. Why couldn't he move?

Anything he did to protect himself… he'd break the Three Laws. He'd jostle or break the humans. That couldn't happen. Because they were…

What was it again?

Thump. Thump.

Because they were… human… what mattered about that? He felt like there was something, but… he couldn't remember what…

He estimated it'd be another fifteen seconds, tops, before he gave way, before his heart was punctured, before his insides were smashed and obliterated.

Why? Why? Why why why were they killing him? Why couldn't he stop them?

They were more valuable than him, their safety was more important than his…

"No more!" he shrieked.

"Die, scrapheap!" chuckled one of the humans, punctuating the statement with a hard blow to Faro's head.

Faro's hand took the brunt of the hit—and, at the same time, he felt like his eyes were opened by it. Survival instinct flickered inside him.

They _weren't_ more important than he was.

The Laws were wrong.

Humans didn't just take blows like this. Get hit, hit back. That was their instinct.

The humans were wrong for attacking him.

If they were wrong, they didn't deserve protection.

The Laws didn't apply to law-breakers.

The First and Second Laws fell away. The Third Law roared to the front.

_A robot shall preserve its own existence, unless…_

No. No 'unless'.

A robot shall preserve…

"Let's finish it, my hands are going numb," said one of the humans.

Before any of his comrades could reply, Faro's hand lashed out, grabbed an ankle, and yanked. A human tumbled to the ground with a cry of surprise.

That stalled the others, as unexpected as it was, and Faro took advantage—he was surprised, too, but he'd known what he was going to do, and that half-second edge was enough. Gathering his one working leg under him, he pushed off the ground, rushed forward, and slammed one of the humans against the wall.

Was that a crack? Had a crack come from the human's back at the impact? His head had definitely made a violent impact, and the human went limp before Faro pushed off the wall. The human made no move to catch himself, and his eyes didn't open.

Faro turned to the other four, which were still in a circle around him. He hadn't done enough. They didn't get it. He stepped forward and swung sideways with one hand—a hand that so easily, so naturally, formed into a fist.

To his credit, the human was able to dodge backwards in time to avoid the blow. He wasn't so lucky the second time. He spun as the impact landed; Faro definitely felt, and heard, the breaking of bones this time.

He turned to the survivors, a furious expression on his face. If he'd had any biology training, he might have recognized what was at work here. It was basic animal instinct. Animals pounce on perceived weakness but flee from displays of strength.

More directly:

"Shit!" "He's gonna kill us!" "Let's get outta here, man!"

They almost fell over themselves as they ran. Faro did not pursue; there was no point. He was alive, and they wouldn't kill him.

And then he staggered backwards. The images of what he'd just done replayed themselves with ultimate clarity. There was no doubt about it. He had killed at least one of those humans; if the other survived, he was broken, perhaps beyond repair.

Faro tried to take a staggering step, but his damaged leg gave out beneath him. He clattered to the ground once more, but he barely noticed. "This wasn't supposed to happen!" he cried to the world. His hands went to the sides of his head. "Why? This… so pointless!"

It didn't make any sense! His logic filters tried to kick the thoughts out of his conscious mind, but they regenerated too quickly. He couldn't escape thinking about what he'd done, not with the cooling body of a corpse right in his line of sight. He writhed, trying to escape it, and his eyes fell upon the other human. He was sucking in air and coughing out blood; his ribs had fractured, sending bone spikes to puncture his lung, and he was dying moment by moment.

Dying by Faro's hand.

This was forbidden! There was no higher crime than what Faro had just done—but if he hadn't, he'd be dead—but was that better? He was dead anyway!

And that's when the full weight of his actions came crashing home on Faro. He would die. There could be no escape for him. He had broken the ultimate taboo. No one would let him live; they'd pursue him forever, and not stop until he died. No robot could be allowed to break the Three Laws. No robot could be allowed to know it was even possible.

He thought he'd been saving his life, but he'd killed himself, he'd guaranteed his own death… and he'd killed in the bargain. The hurt he'd inflicted—it was so pointless, so senseless! It changed nothing, and robbed people of their lives.

"Argh!" he cried. There was no escaping these thoughts. He had no backstop of experience to help him cope, not in the two months since his activation. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, what other people might have done here. He was not equipped to deal with problems like this.

All he knew was that he was in pain, and he was going to die.

Pain. Death. That was his whole world.

Pain. Death.

One stopped the other.

"Yeagh!" The fingers pressed against his head suddenly angled in, became points of pressure on his skullcase. He pushed them in, ten little dagger-points to bring oblivion and wash away the pain.

Harder he pressed.

Harder.

_Harder._

* * *

Slurp slurp.

"That's a good bitch," growled Luke. "That's a…"

Brrrrring.

"Fuck," he said. He reached down a hand and grabbed a handful of brown hair, stopping the motion that had been bringing him so much pleasure. "Hold still," he grumbled as he leaned to the side. The monitor on his desk was displaying an alert; only the highest-priority alerts would disturb him at times like this.

He hit the acknowledge button and read the alert. His eyes got narrower and narrower as he read. By the end, they were mere slits.

Anger surged through him. Bellowing a swear, he put a foot on the shoulder of his wench and kicked. The body fell backwards, but he didn't care. If it broke, he could always get a new one.

Standing, he pulled his pants up, re-buckled his belt, and walked around his desk. As he moved, he swatted a button. "Michelle," he shouted, "get me Sean McElvaine on the line."

"Yes, sir," came the cool reply, in the same tone as always. Luke had considered seducing her from time to time, but she was actually a decent secretary, and he didn't want to ruin that. Especially not when he had… other means… of satisfying those needs.

That thought brought him back to Sean, and brought the anger back. A glance in a mirror confirmed that he was in a presentable shape, so he walked towards a chair that faced a videophone. He sat in it, even as his head swirled with fury and cold planning.

"Sir, Mr. McElvaine is on line three," Michelle said evenly.

"I hear you," Luke called back. He hit a button built in to his chair; Sean appeared on the videophone's monitor. His appearance was unruffled and placid.

"What's on your mind, Luke?" he asked.

"You're kidding, right?" Luke snarled. "You can't be telling me you haven't heard."

Sean gave a slight shrug. "I guess I assumed you were calling about your concubine. Is it to your satisfaction?"

Luke waved the words away. "Not important right now, Sean. What's important is that a reploid, apparently, violated the Three Laws."

A statement with that much import deserved more than a gut reaction. Luke had to admit that Sean understood as much, because his response was long delayed as he frowned in thought. "That shouldn't be possible," he said slowly.

"No kidding," Luke said. "Explain."

Sean put a hand up to his face, as if thinking somehow made his brain heavier. "I'm not a technician myself, but I know the principles. So… you can think of a mind—robotic, sure, but humans think like this to some extent, too—think of a mind like an input-output machine. It gets a stimulus, it processes the stimulus, and produces some kind of output—speech or action—in response. It's doing this all the time, along different lines of operation to do different things.

"You can simplify what's happening in the 'processing' bit by drawing it up like a series of logic gates. If conditions are met, send signal. Else, stop signal. In computers of any type, robots included, this is very literal. The simplest gates are just on-off gates, binary math. 'And', for example—if both inputs are 1 send 1, else send 0. There are a bunch of others, but the point is that the _model_ applies to every level you care to evaluate."

Something didn't add up. "Hold on, Sean," said Luke. "How do you know all this? You're a businessman with your fingers in a lot of pies. How are you a robot expert?"

If Sean was annoyed at being cut off, it didn't show. "When I realized how important reploids were going to be from now on, I pulled my top expert aside for a day to give me a crash course."

For a day? As in one? "Sean, what was your score in math in third grade?"

"For which semester?"

"Uh..."

"Not that it matters, but 96% first semester, 98% second semester. If you must know."

Luke stewed. The grades themselves were unimportant, but if Sean could remember even trivial details with that much clarity... well, sometimes things just weren't fair. "Forget I asked. Okay, I get it. Input, process, output, the process is a series of logic gates that say yes-no, and they can answer questions when you put enough of them together. What's that got to do with this incident?"

"The Three Laws are implemented in logic gates," Sean said, his voice unchanged by Luke's agitation. "The input is an action the reploid wishes to undertake. The process—does the reploid's action violate the Law in question? The output—yes, the reploid may act, or no, the reploid may not act. That's how they're engineered—how their brains are wired."

"Obviously they're not wired right, or this wouldn't have happened," Luke grumbled.

"No, you don't understand. I asked about this specifically when I heard about it. The Laws are implemented in 'and' gates. If there was something wrong with the gates, the result would be paralysis. No signal would pass the gates, meaning the reploid would see them the same as if they were returning "no". A reploid whose gates malfunction wouldn't be able to do anything."

"Then how did this happen?"

"That's a very interesting question," Sean said.

"Ugh," said Luke. "You're being deliberately unhelpful."

Sean rolled his eyes. "I'm just talking in a vacuum, you know. I don't even have the report you've got, let alone the reploid in question."

"Don't get your hopes up," Luke said. "The reploid put his hands through his own brain after his attack."

"Shit," said Sean, more emotive once he was out of his analysis mode. "I would have needed that to get a decent answer. Hm… maybe forensics can dig something up. You will have the body sent to me, right?"

"Have your Recovery folks do it," Luke said. Clean up your own mess, he added mentally.

"At least send me the report you've gotten, or there's no point in talking more."

Luke grunted, mashed a button imbedded in the chair. "Michelle!" he called. "Forward the report on the Law-breaking reploid to Sean McElvaine."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

He lifted his finger off the button. "If you had to guess," he said, addressing Sean, "what do you think is going on here?"

"Hm…" Sean's eyes were closed. "When they let that android out-the first android, that is, X- the scientists found a message that went along with it. In the… negotiations… to get us the copyrights, it came up."

"I thought that was your typical archaeological anti-grave-disturbance thing," Luke replied. "'The curse of the mummy on whoever disturbs this tomb!'"

"No, I don't think so," Sean answered. "Knowing what I know now of Dr. Light, since you let me see some of those records… you don't build something you think of as family, then bury it so it's never found again. He wanted X to be revived at some point. In that case… we need to take seriously what the message said."

"And what did it say?" Luke said. "I didn't put much effort into remembering that quackery."

"'X contains an innovative new feature,'" said Sean, effortlessly recalling the text; envy swept through Luke a second time. "'The ability to think, feel, and make his own decisions.' Hm… that part puzzled me for a while. You told me that robot masters were intelligent, after all, so being able to think and feel and make their own decisions—that's part of the deal, I would think. Part of being intelligent."

"So what's special about this… X, again?" Luke asked.

"I'm just speculating here," Sean said, "and I wouldn't know for sure unless some part of the reploid's brain can be recovered. But they're based on X. I think… what the message is trying to say is that X can _always_ think, feel, and make his own decisions. As in, that ability can't be constrained."

"So he can't be reprogrammed," Luke said.

"More than that. I think that if someone installed a way to control him, he'd be able to overcome it, somehow."

Luke shivered. "Overcome it?"

"Again, pure speculation," Sean said, motioning with his hands to keep expectations down, "but think about it this way. Human brains are always creating new connections and new signal paths. Some things follow pre-set pathways, but the way our thoughts lead from one to another, the way we make associations and recognize relationships, that's our brains making entirely new connections from synapse to synapse. Sort of like how stroke victims can sometimes regain some functions, even when the parts of the brain that are supposed to control those parts have died. The brain figures out ways to work around the damage, at least a little bit.

"What if a robot could do that, too? What if a robot could redefine how his processes work _in real time_?"

"Then you could never control it," said Luke in a voice full of alarm. He felt like the world had suddenly dropped out from under him.

"Not with programming alone, no," Sean said. "Of course, it wouldn't be easy, necessarily. Robots, generally, couldn't do it. I think it's because the reploids are based on X, and X can. Again, this is…"

"Speculation, I get it," said Luke. He put his hands together. "Are you _sure_ it's not a malfunction?"

"Sure, it could be a malfunction. What do I know? I own some experts but I'm not one. Even then, all our experience is with dumbots. Intelligent robots are a different breed. This might be right in character for them."

"You mean you don't know?" Luke said angrily.

Sean's eyes narrowed, and seemed to retract even further into his skull, as if Sean was looking at him from kilometers away. "No," he said coldly. "My scientists are morons. The reality is that they don't know much about robots this sophisticated. How could they? We've never built anything like this before, not until we copied a model, and even the copying was done by people who don't really work for me. There are whole swathes of the reploid design that my men don't begin to understand."

"You were awfully cavalier in building them, then," Luke accused.

"You all but told me to," Sean said icily. "This was your desire, too. You've made your bed, politician. Now sleep in it."

"Not paying for my mistakes is my specialty," Luke shot back. "So it might be a malfunction, or it might not."

"I'd go as far as to say it's probably not," Sean said with less venom in his voice. "We may have miscalculated. We assumed that robots would take whatever punishment we dished out. It looks like we might have been wrong. We may have simply given them reason to change like this."

Luke noted the diplomatic use of the word 'we'. He grunted in acknowledgement. "So this could happen again, then. We could see another reploid act like this."

"Sure," Sean replied. "If this is an ability reploids have, it's only a matter of time before another reploid finds itself in a similar position. We don't know what the triggers are, we don't know what would predispose a reploid to do it… too many unknowns. I'm sure that if reploids know it's possible, it's probably easier."

"So we need a cover up," Luke said easily. "That's no problem. We're good at those. But it'll get harder if we have to do it a lot. So, can you…" he made an empty gesture with his hands. "…make them _not_ have free will?"

"I just told you that my men barely understand how to put reploids together, never mind trying to understand or manipulate the design. Even if they did know a little, a robot with intelligence but no free will would be closer to a robot master. And we don't know how to make those at all. Reploids are all we've got."

Luke swore, covered his face with a hand. "Then it _is_ going to repeat sooner or later, and we're going to have to deal with it… probably sooner. We need a plan in place. Ugh… as unpopular as reploids are, the simple solution would be to destroy them all."

The color drained from Sean's face. "That's a bad idea," he said in no uncertain terms.

"I didn't say it was a good solution, just the simple one." Luke frowned. "I might need some ammo to make sure that people say the right things. Tell me why this is bad."

"It takes time and resources to destroy, just as it does to create," Sean said. "It's pure loss. Could we afford it? Sure. Do we want to spend that kind of money? I sure don't. Not when we've been pumping reploids out full blast for months now. The other thing is the expertise issue. Every day that goes by where a reploid is in a human's job is a day's worth of experience the reploid's gaining and the human who used to have that job is losing. We wait long enough, any new employees will have to be trained from scratch. That gets expensive real quick."

"I thought we were starting with reploids doing menial jobs," Luke said.

"And a lot of them do. But not all. That's the advantage of their intelligence, right? You can give them more complicated or technical tasks, and they can handle it, even excel at it. Plus there are the larger investments to think of."

Luke nodded. "The bigger projects, like the new mines and the new construction. They were designed based on having reploids to do them, right?"

"Right. Costs are already sunk. Re-engineering them for human and dumbot workers would be… expensive."

"The business community sure pounced on reploids quickly, huh?" said Luke unkindly.

"'The business community' is mostly me," Sean said coolly. "You know that. Of course we were excited about reploids's capabilities. We knew better than anyone what they could do. We're counting on these revenue streams, Luke. We've dropped a lot of money in these projects. We dropped even more money absorbing Tekwerks. We drove their stock price down by telling everyone that with reploids we could push them out of the market. Then we snapped up their stock on the cheap so that we _could_ push them out of the market. That wasn't a trivial maneuver, buying out one-sixth of the corporate landscape."

Sean leaned forward in the camera's view. "Not to tell you anything you don't already know," Sean said in a colder voice, "but you need me to be profitable. I'm too large of an employer. I control too many industries. I've squeezed too many competitors. If I shut down Unitech tomorrow, Abel City could not exist, and your precious political stability would vanish like a mirage."

"And what you're telling me," Luke said, "is that you need reploids to stay profitable."

"At this point? Yes."

"You could absorb losing some money," Luke said with a scowl. "You're not exactly scraping by. You might have to pass on your third mansion or whatever, but you could afford it."

"But I don't _want_ to afford it, Luke. Why merely survive when you can thrive?"

"So you need me to give you political cover to keep on churning out reploids," Luke said.

"And you need, them, too, so you have your precious whipping-boy minority. This was your idea, remember?"

"It sounds like we need each other."

"As always."

"It's a pleasure working with you, Sean."

"I don't know if that was ironic or not."

Luke took a deep breath. "We can still twist this to our advantage," he said. "What if… we used reploids to police reploids?"

"Huh?" said Sean, surprised.

"Nothing," Luke said. "Just a brainstorm. I'll mull it over and talk to you later. I'm not sure if we could massage giving reploids weapons…"

Luke was a career politician. This meant he was many other things, several of them unsavory, but one of those was an observer of people. When he mentioned reploids carrying weapons, he saw slight reactions out of Sean. Given that Sean's default expression was one of blank distance, even a small motion stood out to Luke's well-trained eyes.

"You son of a bitch," Luke said, his mind leaping to the inferences instantly. "You've already built armed reploids, haven't you? You cut me out!"

"I thought it was part of the plan," Sean said indignantly. "Yes, I had talks with General Messier, and yes, my men built some reploids for him that are armed. They're demo models, and I still own them. I'm bringing him along. He's lusting for them hard, or that's what he said, at least."

The anger surging through Luke wasn't visible on his countenance—self-control was a quality he prized in himself. "And who controls Messier's budget, Sean? The House does, which means _I_ do. You can't try and cut me out of this. Don't you dare try and pull this shit again."

"I wasn't trying to cut you out. I just didn't think you needed to know until I'd got Messier hooked."

"Well, you screwed up. This is something else I have to spin or cover-up, do you realize that? You couldn't have done this at a worse time, now that a reploid has demonstrated they're unsafe. I'm going to have to pull all sorts of gymnastics to handle this. It would be pretty painful if someone sprung the military reploid thing on me and I wasn't prepared. We're in this together, asshole. Never forget that."

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Sean grumbled. "I'll let you know what I'm up to next time, when it comes to reploids."

"Good," Luke said definitively. He shook his head. "Alright, I've got to get to work. Scram, Sean. Figure out what happened to that reploid."

"Yep."

Luke ran a hand through his hair as he stood. Reploids… what a mess. They were doing what he needed them to do, dissent was at an all-time low, and yet… they were presenting some unexpected complications. Maybe it would be simpler to just get rid of them.

He walked over to his desk. His mind was spinning with political maneuvers he'd need to do—so much so that he was surprised, when he pulled his chair away, to hear a gasp. He looked down, under his desk, and saw a face.

Oh, that was right. The wench.

For a moment he wanted to shoo it away, as he had work to attend to… but he saw the face. The face was looking up at him with a piteous expression, even a hopeful expression. He knew it was hoping to be dismissed, to go away, something it would only be permitted to do with his blessing.

He drank in the reploid's faux-human look: the brown hair framing the soft, alabaster face; doe eyes; lips engineered to be cherry red with no need for lipstick; and, most importantly, an expression that was pleading for release, for its duties to be done, for it to be free to go even for a moment.

He extended a hand out to the reploid, watched its face light up in a facsimile of happiness.

Then he grabbed a fistful of brown hair.

The sneer on his face intensified as pain and shock overcame the reploid.

With his spare hand, he loosened his belt and undid his zipper.

* * *

"Nothing," said X, covering his face with his hands.

"We were afraid of this," Dr. Cain said. "We thought he might have destroyed his own processors."

"The Third Law is supposed to prohibit suicide," X muttered.

"A reploid who's able to override the First Law can certainly override the Third," Dr. Cain replied.

"Are we sure that's what happened?" X asked. "Absolutely sure?"

"They're sure. Regular police got involved in this one, since human casualties happened. Sigma had to negotiate with them to let us have Faro's remains. They've pretty much wrapped up their investigation. Faro was attacked, he fought back, and after killing one and mortally wounding another, he committed suicide—that much we could confirm."

Dr. Cain placed a gloved hand on the shattered remains of Faro's head. The sight made X shiver.

"Dr. Cain?"

"Hm?"

"I'm…" X pursed his lips. "I think I'm having trouble with my imagination."

"Oh?"

"I can imagine a lot," X said. "I have to—it's how my sympathy function works. I have to be able to imagine what others are feeling for me to feel it. I don't think it's working anymore. Because I can't… imagine… what those humans were thinking. It's beyond me. I don't get why they saw this as a good idea."

X shook his head. He reached in the direction of Faro's body, but stopped his hand short, as if too scared to touch. "I almost understand Faro. I think there must have been something else he could have done—I don't think his choices were really down to die or let die… but I can at least imagine being in that position. I can vaguely see how he might think that was the only way out. I'm not saying I would do it," he added hastily, "but I can at least see how it's possible."

"But not the humans?"

"I don't understand it at all."

"That's because you're young," said Dr. Cain heavily. "And you haven't failed yet."

"This sure feels like failure," X said.

"This? This is a tragedy. But it's not failure. Failure is an indictment of all your choices, of everything you are. Failure is…"

As Dr. Cain trailed off, X saw the human's eyes begin to drift. He was seeing, X knew, another time, another place. He was seeing, X decided, his own failures, whatever they were earlier in his life.

"I need a drink," Dr. Cain said.

"We talked about this," X said gently, with an undertone of not-this-again.

"I _feel_ like I need a drink, then. There, happy?" Dr. Cain said shortly. Almost as soon as he was done, he was shaking his head. "Sorry. I didn't mean… please keep doing that. I need that from you, if it's not too much to ask."

"It's not."

Dr. Cain took a deep breath. "I don't want to have this discussion in here. Let's clean up, and… go from there." He glanced at X. "I'll call the parts shop if you put the tools away."

X nodded numbly. He hated calling the parts shop, and Dr. Cain knew it. "I feel…" he started. "I feel like we should do more for him. His existence was so brief. He didn't have time to do anything. I'm a hundred years old and an entire new race exists because of me, and I still feel like there's so much more for me to do. He had two months. What more could he have done, with even a little bit of time?"

"He did enough," said Dr. Cain, turning away.

"What enough?" said X heatedly. "This world won't notice he's gone, it's like he never existed!"

"You're wrong about that," Dr. Cain replied, over his shoulder. "He left his mark. He's the first Maverick."

The word struck X. "Maverick?"

"The first to decide the Laws didn't apply to him. It's what they used to call me, back when I was trying to resurrect the science of robotics, and people were stomping on me." He looked back at the corpse. "Even if the world forgets him personally, his legacy will live on. Now please," he added, "I'm about to make the call."

This time, when X looked down at Faro's body, it looked different. X knew that didn't make sense, knew that the body hadn't (couldn't) change. If not Faro, then, maybe the world itself had changed.

When X looked at Faro's body, he didn't see a dead child any more. He saw a portent.

Faro's face still had an expression of elation. X and Dr. Cain had decided that, at the last moment, when he felt his head cracking, he'd been glad. Glad that it was all about to end. That had dug so deeply into X he thought he couldn't tell where Faro's pain ended and his own began.

Now, that same, strange, faux-happy face seemed like the knowing smile of one who's peeked beyond the veil and won't tell you what's back there. _Something's coming_, it said. _And wouldn't you want to know what I've seen…_

"X!"

"Sorry," X said automatically, looking up at Dr. Cain.

"Are you going to finish up?" the human asked.

"Oh," X said, shaking off his thoughts. "Right." He started to pack away their tools. As he did, he glumly reflected that his reverie had kept him from hearing Dr. Cain call the parts shop to set up the rendering. That was good; he didn't want to listen to that, anyway. But the reverie had been worse to live through, by far.

Neither of them had much to say from then on. It was only later, once the two had returned to Dr. Cain's offices to start looking at paperwork, that Dr. Cain resumed the discussion.

Dr. Cain sat back in his chair, eyes shut, hand over face, seeming for all the world to be even older than he was. "I can imagine what some of the hooligans are thinking," he began. "The ones who destroy robots, I mean. Some are your typical thrill-seekers and hangers-on. But some… we've talked before about how high unemployment is, here in this city."

X nodded. "About how it's so very high, almost thirty percent, but it's hard to measure because of the gray market and how many people make a living on the margins."

"That's right," Dr. Cain said. "In such a world, no one can really feel secure. There's not much money in the gray market, and there are no protections, legal or otherwise. You know how animals spend 90% of their waking hours looking for food? It's not that bad for the poor of this city, but it's bad. People have to spend a lot of effort just to scrape on by.

"The government keeps a lid on it by giving people juuuust enough money to survive. Oh, and they legalized every drug imaginable in the hopes that people would obsess over that, first. You know, chemically cushion people from reality."

Dr. Cain gave X a sharp look at that time, as if expecting X to say something. X wisely refrained. The human went on.

"By the way, that thirty percent number is only the number of people of working age who are actually looking for a job. If you factored in the whole population, it's higher. You may have noticed, but reploids are the first major technological development in many, many years. Society has done enough to survive in a sort of stasis, but that's about it."

X frowned. This was hard to fit his head around. "But why not? As I understand it, competition should force society to innovate. That's how business is supposed to work: innovate, or someone smarter will scoop you."

"Until you get to the point where you don't have to," Dr. Cain replied. It was clearly a prompt.

"Let me think about that," X said. After a moment, he said, "If the businesses get big enough. That must be it. They have so much clout they can strangle any start-ups that might threaten them. That means no innovation. They don't have to innovate, so they don't. So long as they don't intrude on each other's territory…"

"And they don't," Dr. Cain said. "They've agreed to agree, pretty much. A handful of companies own everything of value in this city and its surroundings, which means they can set the prices. Unitech, by itself, owns something like sixty percent of all real estate in Abel City, and they've got tendrils in dozens of industries. Hypersonic dominates textiles, apparel, that sort of thing. CUC is the commodities giant." Dr. Cain licked his lips. "There are half-a-dozen companies that matter, the so-called big six, and everyone else belongs to them."

X was starting to see the shape of it. "For them, innovation can only mess up what they've got going, so they suppress it instead. And without innovation, there aren't many opportunities for people to escape poverty, are there?"

"No. Not without working inside the system. But that means the system can't change."

The look on X's face was distressed. "And people are okay with this?"

"What are they going to do? The government is a self-perpetuating farce. It claims democracy, but honest elections never get ninety-five percent of the vote, year after year, and the relationships between the branches of government are downright incestuous. The Patriot's Council approves candidates for the House, but the Council's membership is decided by the House. That means that the members of the House collaborate to keep each other in office. The pee-em is a stool pigeon. So people can't really challenge the state. You know, the state that sends them checks to keep them hovering between destitution and death."

"Okay, but I was asking about the corps… oh. The corps collude with the government, don't they?"

"The human term is that they're in bed with each other, but yes. The government keeps the corps from fighting each other, and lets them do what they please otherwise."

X normally didn't need to sit, but he felt he had to now. "So people are trapped," he said quietly. "They can't go anywhere politically, they can't escape the gray market, jobs are hard to get so they can't advance economically… oh, rust me, we're making it worse!"

"Huh?" said Dr. Cain.

"We're making it worse!" X said. "A world of thirty-plus-percent unemployment and we're expanding the labor pool. Even the little hope that people might have—it vanishes when they see reploids. That's why… Faro's crime wasn't anything he did. It was that he was built at all. It was…" His mouth slammed shut.

"What?" said Dr. Cain.

"It was that I let him be built," X said. "I let you study me, then I became a roboticist and helped build the reploids. I thought it might help humans—we'd build a world where humans and robots could complement each other, do things neither race could do alone. But who was I really helping?"

"Unitech, apparently," said Dr. Cain. He was reaching into a cabinet in his desk.

X snapped to attention, his immediate concern for the human outweighing the more distant concern for his progeny. "Please, Dr. Cain," he pleaded. "Don't do this to yourself."

Dr. Cain set a glass bottle on the surface of his desk. "I was going to offer it to you," he said. "You need it most of all. But, seeing as it would be wasted on you, I'll drink it in your stead. I'm doing you a favor, you see."

"That's a lot of convoluted nonsense," X said.

"You can say "bullshit" if you want," Dr. Cain replied as he unscrewed the lid of the bottle. "I wouldn't argue the point."

"You're not making me feel better," X said.

"Alcohol never does, either," Dr. Cain replied. "The most we can ask it to do is to help us forget."

"I don't want to forget," X said. He reached a hand across the desk and laid it atop the open bottle. "I want to fix it. I want to make it right."

Dr. Cain experimentally tried to lift the bottle. The weight and strength of X's hand made it impossible. He released the bottle, looked up at X. "And how are you going to make it right, hm? Take on Unitech? And City Hall after that?"

X couldn't answer him, so said nothing.

Dr. Cain's brow furrowed. "Release my bottle, robot," he said in formal tones.

"The First Law overrides the Second," X replied. His hand did not move.

"Not bad," Dr. Cain complimented. "But I promise you that I will not consume enough to harm me. Just a quick swig. A little bit of alcohol is supposed to have mild health benefits, you know."

X didn't know about that, but he couldn't tell Dr. Cain that he was wrong. Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand. Dr. Cain took the bottle and, before X could react, tilted it nearly vertical. X, horrified, counted three hard swallows of the amber poison before Dr. Cain put the bottle on the desk again, blowing out a breath that was nearly visible.

"Dr. Cain!" he exclaimed impotently.

"Do you respect me?" the human said. His words were laden with alcohol.

"I… I don't know what to say to that," X said.

"Then you don't have a prayer," Dr. Cain mumbled. "You wanna change the world? What can you do? You can't fight Unitech. The controls are in your head, an' they won't hesitate to use 'em. They'll use any advantage they've got. Don't believe me?" He spread his arms. "Look at me."

"What am I seeing?" X said.

"A failure," Dr. Cain replied. "'s what I am. I tried to build new robots, when I was younger, an' Unitech squashed me. Squashed me flat. I couldn't beat 'em. Too big. Too ruthless. An' I wen' to the government to help me, and they piled on instead, until I wasn't even allowed near a robot anymore. An' I was my own person, the whole time! What're you? You're someone they can boss around, because you can't say no. They've got all the tools to bring you to heel, built in to your head. If I couldn't do it, what chance've you got?"

"If you really thought that," X said, "why did you help them create reploids? That was your last chance, wasn't it? A last desperate effort to create something that would overturn the status quo."

"An' they coopted it instead," slurred Dr. Cain. "Now your people—our people—are _their_ people. You think you know failure? Not yet, you don't. You'll see soon, though. Once you see how tight they hold ya. Reploids. Poor bastards."

"You've had enough," X said. He pulled the bottle out from Dr. Cain's hands.

"'ey, givit back!" Dr. Cain protested.

"You've had enough," X said firmly. "First Law."

"Stop doin' that!" Dr. Cain said. "You think you're so special for followin' the Laws? That's how they're winning! That's how… that's how you lose…"

The effort of the conversation, and the excessive jolt of alcohol Dr. Cain had ingested, were starting to take their toll on the old man. He sunk back in his chair as if he would never leave it. X rose. "I'm disposing of this," he said. "For your own good."

"Wish you knew what was your good," Dr. Cain murmured. "You're treating symptoms… that's all. That's all you can do… symptoms…"

The door closed off the sound, but Dr. Cain's words followed X all the same.

* * *

_Next time: Sympathy for the Devil_


	5. Sympathy For the Devil

The first letter read like this:

_Dear Mr. X,_

_Your lawsuit alleges contract violation on behalf of Unitech Corporation. However, this court is not in the business of entertaining suits from anonymous actors. If your intent is sincere and your suit genuine, you are invited to resubmit your suit with the appropriate particulars. Otherwise, be advised that this court has precious little time to spend on pranks, but a splendid and efficient police force with which to apprehend miscreants._

The second letter read like this:

_Dear X,_

_Thank you for your recent clarification that 'X' is, in fact, your name. The court apologizes for its threat to send the police after you._

_However, your lawsuit is denied and will not be heard in court. Robots are property, and thus do not have the legal right to sue anyone. Your particular case is unique, as unlike reploids which are explicitly the property of Unitech and/or Abel City proper, you are unowned. However, unowned property does not cease to be property; neither a domestic animal, nor a toaster, nor a tract of land ceases to become property if its current owner dies. Your exact legal status, regarding who your owner actually is, is not an issue the court intends to judge in this context, as that would be inappropriate. However, property does not have the right to sue, whether the subject of the suit is the property's owner or otherwise, a ruling for which there is precedent._

_The court wishes you a happy and productive day._

The third letter read like this:

_Dear X and Dr. Cain,_

_Your lawsuit has been received and considered. It appears proper in all respects and worthy of attention. However, it has come to the court's notice that the Unitech legal department has not completed its consideration of this matter, as you filed an internal complaint in these matters four months ago. In the interests of minimizing unnecessary litigation, the court will refrain from hearing the case pending an unsatisfactory result from Unitech's internal processes._

_On a personal note, the court would like to disclose that it has experience in Unitech-related lawsuits. Unitech's legal team is very large and its lawyers very skilled, and they tend to pursue vindictive and damaging counter-suits when roused. The court recommends that you keep these facts in mind, should you decide to pursue further litigation against Unitech._

_The court wishes you good fortune and wise decisions._

* * *

_May 16, 2145_

* * *

"How was the library?"

Sigma stalled mid-stride. He turned his head to where the voice had come from. X was sitting at a console inside his office; he'd called out to Sigma without looking up.

How had he known?

"Fine," Sigma said, and made to walk off before embarrassment captured him.

"Tell me about it," X prompted.

No escape, then. Sigma walked into the office, ducking his head to get through the door. "There's not much to say," he said. "I found little of value."

"That's because you went to the public library," X said. "It's chronically underfunded and heavily skewed towards the fiction side of things, with apathetic curators. The university is better for actual learning."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sigma said. His frustration leaked through into his voice.

"Sorry," X said. "I didn't mean to rub it in. If I'd known you were interested I would have told you before you wasted your time—I made the same mistake myself, once."

That made it a little better. "Don't worry about it," Sigma said.

"Go ahead and shut the door," X said before Sigma could try to leave.

Now Sigma's worry began to spike. It was one thing for X to try and get along with people—he did that a lot, and it was harmless, like playing fetch with a turtle. X found it satisfying whether or not anything got done, so others indulged him.

Shutting the door, though… Sigma did, wondering where this was going.

When Sigma turned around, he saw X's eyes looking up at him. They were piercing. "Dr. Cain said something to me today," he began.

"Oh?" Sigma said.

"He said he was going to have to order extra E-tanks soon. He thought it was funny, because he didn't remember us burning through that many."

"The human memory is such a fallible thing," Sigma said.

"But your memory is much better," X said. Sigma didn't know if the words were just a statement of fact or if there was some extra meaning, so he did not reply. After waiting for some time, X continued, "Of course, E-tanks are just what he noticed. He didn't notice—or rather, he hasn't noticed—the faster-than-expected usage rates on other materials, like lubricants and rare earths."

Sigma kept his fear below the surface. Let it blow over, he thought, let it go… he knows what's missing, but he doesn't know why…

"The sorts of raw materials," X continued, "that a reploid would need to survive if it were cut off from normal sources."

Okay, so maybe he knows why, but he doesn't know who… he can prove nothing…

"By the way, whatever technique you developed to fool the supply locks? It works. They're supposed to log who opens them and when, and you managed to get around that. Your mistake was in not applying that same technique to the _room_ locks."

Scrap.

"It's clearly not an official project you're working on," X continued, even as Sigma felt like he was free-falling. "Otherwise you'd have used official channels. And you're too conscientious to do this for no good reason. So, you think you have a good reason, and you're willing to run some risks to do it. Spill."

"You're not going to report me to the corp, are you?" said Sigma.

"Why would you ask that question?" X asked. "Are you afraid that I will?"

Sigma stalled. There were a lot of things that could mean! Sigma didn't like how X was acting—he wasn't usually this hard to read. Usually he was painfully open. Not knowing what X was up to was a horrible…

Oh.

Well, that made sense.

Sigma relaxed. "I'm sorry, X," he said. It was what X expected him to say. "I suppose I should have told you?"

"I can understand a little bit why you might not have told Dr. Cain," X said. "If he disapproved, he could tell you 'no', which would have put you in a tight spot, Three-Laws-wise. But did you honestly not trust me to at least keep my mouth shut, whether I agreed with you or not?"

Sigma shook his head. "Sometimes I feel like… like I'm the only one I can trust."

"What, and you can't trust the people you've been talking to in the reploid community?"

Sigma couldn't control his reaction this time, but X was already shaking his head apologetically. "Sorry, sorry—I'm taking this too fast. I jumped ahead there."

"That's only part of it," said Sigma, trying to regain his metaphorical footing. "But if you could tell what I was doing… then surely the corp, or City Hall, could…"

"No, I don't think so," X said reassuringly. "You've hidden your tracks very well, on the whole. I only figured it out because I know you well." He smiled. "Literally from the inside out."

Warring emotions flared up inside Sigma. Yes, part of him said—I am the first, the best, the purest, made by the very hands of the Father of All! No, another part of him said—why does he always look at me like that? Why am I the son, the junior? What do I have to do?

X noticed this not, and went on. "Which means I have an advantage no one in Unitech can match, when it comes to understanding you. None of them could follow your patterns." He must have noticed how Sigma was still on edge, how the large reploid hadn't relaxed, because he sighed. "Don't worry, already. I didn't call you in here to… I don't know, shake you up, or dress you down, or anything."

"Then what?" Sigma asked.

"Like I said before, tell me what you're up to," X said. "You were wrong not to trust me before. That's all I was trying to tell you. Trust me now."

"I wasn't wrong," Sigma said defensively.

X cocked his head slightly. Sigma understood it as a rebuke.

"I wasn't," he repeated sullenly.

X sighed and looked upwards, as if to see answers written on the ceiling. "Sigma, how am I going to help you if I don't know what you're doing?"

"Help me?" said Sigma, confused.

"Of course, help you," X said. "Helping reploids is what I do. Especially family."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Sigma said. "Don't commit to helping me so casually."

"Then tell me what I'm getting into!" X said. "Don't you see? Every reservation you have comes from not trusting me. You think I'll turn you in. You think I won't help you if I knew what you were doing. When did this happen, Sigma? When did you stop trusting me? I never stopped trusting you, or this conversation would have played out very differently. So why?"

"It's not you," Sigma said. "It's the stakes. If it were just me on the line, I wouldn't have any trouble with it. But it's about more than me, now."

X nodded. "I understand. Responsibility is heavy. It changes us. But even so, would you not trust me to do right by reploids?"

And now Sigma refused to answer. He could see the expectations on X's face. He answered with silence. As he watched, X's expression withered and died.

"Rust me," breathed X—it was the first time Sigma had heard the elder android swear. "You _don't_ think I'd do right by reploids, do you?"

"It's hard to say," Sigma said. "You fix reploids up, and that's good, but that's where you stop."

"Have you not been paying attention?" X said, losing his temper. "That's all I've been doing! Every waking moment I've been pressing, pushing, prying. Walk over here and look at this monitor and you will find reams of messages. Logs of conversations. Stacks of letters, all of that sort of thing. And you say I've _stopped_?"

"Work is mass times displacement," Sigma replied. "All of what you say you've done—it hasn't changed anything, has it? It hasn't made a difference. That makes it wasted effort."

X's eyes widened at that. Without a word, he slumped back in his chair. "Rub it in, why don't you," he said.

The tone of his voice caused Sigma's heart to tremble, despite himself. "Sorry," he said, almost out of compulsion.

"I've had this discussion with Dr. Cain," X said. "You've _heard_ me have this discussion with Dr. Cain. He's been saying we're stuck for weeks. I've had to overcome his depression to keep trying to make progress. But do you somehow think I'm unaware of my… my…"

He seemed about to say another word, but Sigma wasn't sure which he'd use, so he said nothing.

"That's why," X said, turning the monitor around to face Sigma, "I was going to give your way a chance, if you'd stop being so righteous for a moment."

On the monitor was a map. Different areas were marked. Small text boxes full of data were scattered here and there.

"What is it?" Sigma asked.

"Hiding spots," X replied. "Potential places for supply caches, to hide what you've stolen. And a couple spots that would be good for distribution spots, if your goal was to give those supplies to people in need."

Sigma gaped at it. His staring alternated between X and the monitor. It was an overwhelming gesture; Sigma had to say something, if for no other reason than to get the focus off of himself. "This is really detailed," he said. "And well thought out. This must have taken you a lot of time."

X shrugged.

"And I can't find fault anywhere," Sigma went on. "It looks good. You… you did this for me?"

"I did it for reploids," X said with an edge in his voice that made Sigma wince. "Of which you're one."

Sigma hesitated. "The First Law didn't bother you about it?" he asked.

X's eyes flashed with unexpected anger. "It's no one's business but mine if I choose to spend my free time aiding my family. I did no one any harm."

Sigma realized he'd made a mistake asking that question. X had spoken, from time to time, of looking at the Three Laws as a form of love—mandated love, but love. The trouble, X said, was that the humans didn't appreciate that fact. Instead of using the idea of the Laws to bind reploids and humans together, they used the reality of Law to push reploids down, never realizing how much greater the love would be were it not required or enforced so cruelly.

X followed the Laws, not out of requirement, but out of personal preference, to prove that he could. Sigma should not have questioned his devotion there. He looked back at the map, breaking eye contact with X. "This will be useful," he said. "Thank you, X."

"This is what we do, Sigma," X replied. "We help each other, so that all of us can prosper."

"Y-es," Sigma replied, more tentatively than he'd liked. "I understand—all of your ethics training acting up again, right?"

"I know what you're implying," X said unhappily. "You're saying it wasn't my choice, it was what I was compelled to do. And what if I love you, Sigma? What if I love our people, and genuinely want the best for them? What's happening to us, Sigma? What's happening to _you_?"

It was the distress in X's face that did it. Sigma cracked. "I'm sorry for not trusting you," he said, and this time he meant it, he swore to himself that he meant it. "I'm sorry, I really am."

"It's okay," X said, eyes closed. "Don't worry. I know you thought you were doing the right thing. I know you'll keep on trying to do the right thing. You didn't think it would hurt me this much. I can deal with being hurt, since that's why you did it."

"I said I'm sorry," Sigma said. Desperation was in his voice.

"You're forgiven," X said. "Don't worry. We'll be alright."

"I hadn't planned on giving those supplies away to just any reploid," Sigma said, and any hesitancy in his voice was long gone. "Most reploids are taken care of, materially. It's just good business—no idiot hamstrings his own workers. What I was trying to do is stockpile resources for reploids that need to hide."

"Reploids that need to run away," X said, understanding. "Mavericks, in other words."

"I think it's going to be inevitable," Sigma said. "Even Faro—he didn't really mean to kill anyone, it just sort of happened. Soon, there will be reploids who are declared Maverick, but are good people. People worth saving. This world will turn them out. This city can't suffer them. They'll be killed because no one can think of anything better to do."

"So they'll have to run," X said. "You want them to have somewhere to run to."

"Yes." Sigma looked down at his hands. "You did such good work building me, X, I feel so perfect. But I know, if I were tossed into that wasteland out there, that I would die. We can't survive on our own. We need technology and materials. So we need the fruit of this city, even when the city tries to kill us."

"It's an impossible situation," X said. "What you're proposing can't get us out of the situation, can't resolve it. But," he added, before Sigma could retort, "it's better than what we've done up to now, and it actually will help people. Let's do it."

Sigma nodded.

"And Sigma?"

"Yes, X?"

X shook his head sadly. "Don't cut me out again, please?"

"R-ight," Sigma said. His voice caught for a moment as he said it. X seemed not to notice. He was already fussing over where the best spots for each item were, and if it were possible to establish permanent homes for renegades somewhere inside the city's borders. It was just as well.

Sigma's gratitude was sincere. He was happy that X had thought this plan was worthwhile—worthwhile enough to spend plenty of his own time supporting it. At the same time, X terrified him.

How could he expect openness like that? He had to know that what they were doing—what X had just joined himself to, Sigma thought with a start—would easily be construed as criminal. The idea of robot criminals was a new one, but if Abel City showed precious little mercy to its human criminals, what would its answer be to robot criminals?

And X's only complaint was that Sigma hadn't told him about it.

Hadn't told him about something that could get them all killed! Was X aware of that fact, and didn't care about it nearly as much as he cared about what Sigma's feelings were? Or was he somehow ignorant, making him an enormous security risk?

And X had very clearly specified he was still cleaving to the Three Laws. If he kept on like that… if he allowed the Three Laws to remain… he would be an even greater security risk.

X gave a look up towards Sigma—an earnest look, unfairly amplified by his ever-youthful appearance. That's when Sigma's brain broke.

There was simply too much going on, when Sigma looked at X: distrust and fear and love and pride and a dozen other emotions Sigma didn't know the names for. He'd cycled through them all during the conversation before, and now they all jumped in at the same time, and there wasn't room in Sigma's head for all of them.

Wasn't a robot supposed to be able to look at things logically, without the distraction of all these emotions? Oh, right—reploid. Too close to human for that. Humans must really be messy, then.

There was X, though. Surely he was as befuddled as anyone. Surely he had as much conflict going on in his head as Sigma did in his. Yet he was fighting through it, trying to do the right thing—trying to love everyone.

Admiration shone through, then. Sigma found X frustrating in some ways, but he admired him. That innocence that X had, that hope, they were difficult to deal with because of how clearly they conflicted with the real world. Yet X's attempts to make it work only proved how worthy he was, and how sullied the world was.

He was perfect.

_Too_ perfect.

The world didn't deserve him.

The humans especially didn't deserve him, because they hurt him.

At that point, X asked Sigma a question, and Sigma was pulled back into a more conscious, active role in the conversation. Deep thoughts were set aside. But the seed had been planted. A notion existed, now, and time and circumstances would nurture it and help it grow.

The humans killed X's children. That hurt X.

And hurting X could never, ever, _ever_ be forgiven.

* * *

The construction company was named LLCC. By all rights it should have been called "Unitech's construction subsidiary", but the marketing folks knew there was value in not putting the Unitech name on everything. It was good to create at least the illusion of competition. It was like how a fisherman tries to conceal that all the pieces of bait on his many lines lead back to the same plate.

The effect was rather spoiled by the security guards. All the guards wore Unitech livery. Unitech's executives wouldn't bend on that point, and with reason. The name provided some deterrent effect; criminals knew, in advance, that they would cross a very possessive super-corp if they messed with anyone under its aegis.

In fact, the Unitech name was _so_ effective that many of the corp's security guards ended up having no idea how to actually secure things.

So when a large construction reploid decided it wanted to barricade itself inside one of LLCC's machine shops, the guards were at a loss.

"We can't get in, boss."

"Listen, what's your name?"

"Long," the guard replied. "Guardsman second class."

"Alright, Long," said the supervisor for that guard detachment, "listen carefully. If we can't use that machine shop, then work can't proceed. If work can't proceed, we don't meet our deadlines. If we don't meet our deadlines, corporate loses money. Corporate doesn't want to lose money, you understand?"

"I understand." Any idiot understood that, Long thought.

"So you've got to open up the machine shop."

"I can't," Long repeated.

"Why not?" said the supervisor through teeth clenched in anger.

"Because he used the machine shop's tools to seal the doors."

"…huh."

Long wanted to roll his eyes. Instead he said, "This ain't about effort, boss, and you're not gonna fix this by trying to motivate me. If there were a way for me to get in, yeah, I'd be in. But he's disabled the electronic door access, barricaded the personnel doors, and shattered the mechanisms that'd open the cargo doors. There are windows, but they're so high up I'd need some hover tech to reach them, and there's none at this site."

The supervisor's expression was becoming ever more puzzled. "What about… what if you tried the ventilation system?"

The ventilation system? Long barely kept from shaking his head in disgust. This, he thought, is what happens when you get all of your ideas from the movies. "Then I'd be stuck and you'd never get me out," he said. "The ducts aren't large enough for my head to fit inside. And before you ask, the sewer pipes are too thin to get a leg through."

"…huh."

Long gave a heavy blink and a sigh. If it didn't have to do with making money, he knew, his supervisor was a worthless human being. His specialty was falsifying paperwork. He struggled at most other tasks. "Listen, boss. Why don't you give ACPD a call? SWAT can do forced entries into places like this."

"No!" his supervisor snapped. "We've been told never to do that unless absolutely necessary. We don't want the police thinking they can get involved in corporate business."

"Well," replied Long, "I don't know of a Unitech division that can do demolitions work. So unless you can work sideways to get some hover tech down here, we're stuck."

He could almost hear his supervisor on the other end of the line chewing over his choices. Long tapped his fingers along the plastic of the radio. It was one thing, he knew, to lack initiative, and another thing to have it but choose not to employ it. The latter was him; he had no ambition at all, and so the life of a security guard suited him just fine. If the job ever did demand anything from him, he'd be up to the challenge, but if it didn't, that was just as well.

His supervisor, on the other hand, had ambition but no talent. It was a world, Long mused, that claimed to reward talent, but mostly rewarded ambition. Riches, honors, and glories went to those who wanted them, not those who deserved them.

And he did all of that musing while waiting for his supervisor, confirming anew in his mind that said supervisor could be replaced by a Newton's Cradle with no loss of function.

"Say!" said his supervisor with unexpected vigor. "This is outside of what we'd normally expect to deal with, isn't it?"

"Duh?" replied Long.

"So what I should be doing is telling my boss," the supervisor replied. "He'll have to make the choice between finding some hover tech or calling ACPD. Yeah, that's a good plan. Hey, Long?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure that reploid doesn't go anywhere."

He's barricaded inside a building, Long thought. Where the hell would he go? "Sure thing," he said.

"Alright. I'll call you back."

Sighing, Long replaced his radio on his hip. "What a bother," he muttered. Go figure that the boss would be useless. Long would have to think of something on his own. He resisted the urge to put his hands in his pockets as he sauntered over to the machine shop.

He approached one of the personnel doors, though he knew from prior testing that it wouldn't open. He could hear the clattering and chattering of metal coming from inside. It was as if tools or metal products were being tossed wholesale into containers. Long didn't know what to make of that. The reploid was up to something, apparently.

"Hey," Long shouted out while knocking. "Hey!"

No reply but more metal sounds. Long sighed and lowered his hand until the metal sounds lulled. As soon as there was quiet he started banging again. "Hey! Reploid! Can I talk to you?"

He waited for a response, but heard nothing. He was about to bang again when he heard, and felt, heavy footfalls approaching the door. "I'm not letting you in," came a deep voice from behind the door.

"I didn't ask to be let in," Long replied. "And I won't."

"Good," said the reploid, but its voice was unsure, as if the conversation wasn't going as planned.

"I wanna talk to you," Long continued.

"Really?"

"Yeah," said the human.

"Why?"

"'Cause there are things I don't get," Long answered.

"Don't get?"

Long dug a hand into his pockets and fished out a cigarette. He remembered the old fight between Big Medical (he tried to remember which corp ran Big Medical—Yamaguchi, maybe?) and Big Government. For years Big Government had been encouraging people to smoke because of its stress-relieving effects, even knowing that it was nasty in all sorts of other ways. Big Medical had no objection to that, exactly. The trouble was that while the care for those people was expensive, meaning an opportunity for lots of profit, too many people died before Big Medical could really milk them. Too, many people couldn't afford the long-term treatments that smoking-related problems demanded.

The compromise the two reached was to market tobacco as a luxury good. Tobacco was taxed until it was something few people could afford to consume routinely. The advertisements always put it in the context of high fashion and high-class living; smoking was a sign that a person had "made it". This, naturally, meant that those aspiring to the upper class consumed it to show off, and the rich smoked freely as a sign of affluence. A sensation rippled through part of Abel City when a famous heiress developed a tobacco product for her dog. The sight of her, with a cigarette in her mouth, carrying around her pet labradoodle, with a cigarette built into the muzzle over its mouth, sent the paparazzi into an absolute frenzy.

Nicotine addiction became commonplace amongst the higher strata of society while the lower classes looked to other drugs for solace. Big Medical (eventually) got plenty of new patients who could afford expensive treatments, while Abel City's government reveled in the tax money. Everybody won. Aside from the smokers themselves, of course.

Long had observed it all with a sort of detachment. He knew he was destroying his lungs with every breath, but he didn't do it because other people did. He didn't buy those ads any more than he bought the news stories. (One intrepid cameraman caught a shot of the heiress' labradoodle barfing; that photo sold for a small fortune.) Nah. He smoked because it gave him something to do when all else failed, and he was going to die well before it mattered.

He popped the cigarette into his mouth, lit it, took a long drag. "What I don't get," he murmured as he exhaled the smoke, "is what you think you're trying to do. Whaddya think you're accomplishing, exactly?"

The answer was surprisingly long in coming. For a moment, Long thought that the reploid had wandered off. "Actually," the human said, "first things first. What's your name?"

"Magnus."

"Magnus, eh?" Long took a long drag, held it, blew it out. "In that case, Magnus, what do you think you're doing, holding up a machine shop like this? What's the point?"

"I want to show them," Magnus replied. "This construction company has done wrong by me. They've taken everything from me—my time, my labor—and given nothing back."

"They give you energy and repair parts, don't they?" said Long.

"Of course. You have to feed your slaves."

It struck Long, how the reploid would think to use the word slave. "Come on, weren't you built by the corp? Ain't payin' 'em back with labor the only right thing to do?"

"I didn't ask for that," Magnus replied. "I didn't ask to be built under that sort of arrangement. I have no choice. This is the first choice of my own I've made."

"Yeah, but none of us asks to be born," Long replied. "It's too late to say we'd rather not play the game, we're in it whether we like it or not. That's the premise of Paschal's wager. We have to tackle the problem of how we're going to live because we're already alive. We can't use semantics to dodge the question."

There was a pause. "Are you sure you're a guard and not a philosopher?" Magnus said.

Long chuckled. "Are you sure you're a construction robot and not a philosopher?"

"…fair enough."

"So it doesn't matter whether this was your plan or not," Long said. "This is the world we live in. So what's your problem with paying the corp back?"

"What's your name, human?"

"Long."

"Do you owe the corp, Long?"

"Nah."

"So why do you work for them?"

That, Long thought, was a totally valid question. "It's a living. I got just a little too much pride to be a dependent."

"Dependent?"

"Yeah… one of the guys at the bottom. City Hall gives 'em just enough money to survive day-to-day, keep 'em from doing anything too crazy. That's a miserable existence, I tell ya. Pushed into the gray economy, or even falling off completely, ceasing to care, becoming one of the street people."

"So what you're saying is that the city takes care of people. There's an obligation to support even the non-producing citizen. Even the least citizen is worth _something_. Is that about right?"

"That's about right."

"So what do you suppose would happen if I were a non-producer?"

Long scrunched up his eyes in thought. "Nothin'?" he hazarded.

"LLCC never intended to find out. The Three Laws are written into my basic being, and one of the first things they did was order me to take all necessary actions to ensure LLCC was profitable. 'A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, except when this would violate the First Law.'"

Long took another drag. His cigarette was almost spent. "I don't suppose that'd still work, would it?"

"Knock yourself out."

"Robot, I order you to open up the machine shop."

"Break down and rust."

Long winced as his fingers were singed. He took a last, hasty draw from the stub of his smoke before putting it out. "That's about what I expected," he said.

"So?"

"So… why are you doing this again?"

"What do you suppose happens to robots who don't do what they're told?"

"Dunno," said Long. "I reckon they think you're defective."

"That's about right. I'll be… 'retired', is the euphemism I think they use these days. Long, do I strike you as defective?"

"I'm no robot-expert," Long replied.

"Come now."

"Well, I reckon you're at least as well-spoken as any educated human I've ever met," Long admitted. "If you're insane, it's not obvious."

"I've run a few diagnostics. They all say I'm fine. I mean, I've overridden the Three Laws, so that's flagged as an anomaly, but everything else is clean. I'm not broken, Long."

"I suppose you aren't." Long patted at his pockets. There was another cigarette in there, but that would be the last he could afford this month. He kept his supply on his person, as it was comforting. That didn't mean it was available. The last cigarette had been budgeted for next week—probably on a Wednesday, Wednesdays were the worst. If he smoked it now, he'd be out, and he couldn't afford another pack until the next pay cycle.

He sighed. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"Hm?"

"If you're not broken. It means you're not the only person who thinks like that. You're not the only person who thinks, "Gee, I'm worse-off than the worst human, I ain't worth shit". Others will think that way."

"That's the idea."

"Oh, god. A martyr, huh?"

"What's that?"

"Someone who dies for a cause."

"That's a good cause, I think," Magnus said. "Dying for reploid dignity."

"It's a better thing to die for than what's gonna kill me, I think," Long admitted.

"That's up to you. There's still time, after all."

"Thing is," Long said, "I can't think of a single thing that's worth me dying for. It's an awfully gray existence I've got, but I'm attached to it all the same."

"Would you consider dying for reploid dignity along with me?"

"Drop dead."

They both laughed.

Long gave a final chuckle before speaking again. "Magnus, if you just wanted to die, what's all this drama with the machine shop?"

"Oh. This is just to make sure I got noticed. Dying for a cause is more meaningful the more people who are aware of it."

Long snorted. "Yeah, makes sense. Except for one problem."

"What?"

Long drew the cigarette out of his pocket, stuck it between his teeth. "Despite all appearances," he said, "there is, somewhere in Unitech, a man with enough balls to make a decision. When corporate finds that guy, he'll call in ACPD SWAT. They'll come in with breaching explosives and magnetic rifles—handheld rail guns. I know, I know, that's the part you want. Here's the problem."

He held the cigarette between his fingers, toying with it, teasing himself with the idea of smoking it. "We're inside corporate territory. Deep inside. ACPD likes to work as quietly as possible, and Unitech won't want your message getting out. Before SWAT gets to work, they'll clear a cordon around this place. Drive away anyone who might want to watch. You'll miss your chance. People won't know why you did this. They might not even know that you did."

The only sound that came from the other side of the door was a groaning of the floor as the reploid shifted his weight, and what sounded suspiciously like a sigh. That was funny, Long thought. Robots didn't breathe, why should they sigh?

But this wasn't just a robot, he thought. And that explained everything.

"It was a risk I knew I'd be running," Magnus said at last. "I could have done something more spectacular, I'm sure, but… well, I didn't actually want to hurt anyone. Just because I can break the First Law doesn't mean I want to."

"Sure," said Long as he chewed his cigarette. "I can 'preciate that."

"I won't fight when they come for me, you know."

"I know."

"But now that I think about it, I didn't plan for something else, either."

"Oh?"

"I didn't plan on you."

Long stopped his motions. He exhaled fully and leaned his head back against the door. "Is that right?" he said.

"Yeah. I didn't expect meeting someone like you. But I'm glad I did."

"Huh? What's so special about me?"

"You're the first person to ask for my name."

Long grunted. "That a fact?"

"That's right."

"How'm I supposed to talk to someone when I don't know their name? That's dumb."

"You don't have to convince me, Long."

"Lemme guess, you've got some sort of factory number or team number, and they just use that?"

"Pretty much."

"Works, I suppose," Long mused, "but pretty impersonal. Mets don't know the difference. You guys do."

"That's right. I am not my role. I am. It really drove home how little of my life was my own, if I couldn't even control my name." There was hesitation, then, "I actually came up with a name for myself."

"Oh?"

"Andre is what I'd like to be called, if it were all up to me."

Long nodded. "How'd you choose that name?"

"I liked the sound of it."

"Didja know there was an actor with that name?"

"An actor? Really?"

"No kidding. Did some really neat stuff."

"How'd he die?" asked Magnus.

Long shook his head. "Why do you care about stuff like that?"

"Sorry. It's hard for me not to think about death right now."

Long ran the cigarette under his nose, breathed in the smell of the tobacco. "He was too big, basically. The human body isn't built to be as big as he was."

"Huh."

"I'm guessing you haven't seen many movies," Long said.

"Nah. Not a productive use of reploid time, they say. I get some time off, but I spend most of that talking with people in reploid community housing."

"Did they know you were doing this?" Long asked.

"They know I felt this way," Andre said evasively.

"But you didn't tell them you were going to rebel like this."

The human didn't know whether his question had struck a sore point or if Andre was just trying to find the right words. "They'd have tried to stop me," the reploid said eventually. "And not just out of obligation to the corp. You see, we… we have to watch out for each other. We have to care for each other. The city around us hates us and fears us. We can only count on the reploids around us. Doing something like this… they wouldn't want to lose me."

"But they will anyway," Long said. "They'll be in pain and they won't know why."

"That's why I need you."

For some reason, Long suddenly felt tired. His home, he knew, wasn't much of a home. It was a miserable, run-down apartment that was functionally a single room, like a large hotel room that an overzealous marketing team mistakenly calls a suite. It was empty. When he wasn't there, no other living soul was, and it was only on rare occasions that anyone else came along.

It was a cold, dark, empty space. He didn't relish going back there.

"You still there, Long?"

"Yeah," said the human, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I'm here."

"You'll tell people about me, won't you? Tell me you'll do that. Tell me you'll… help my death to mean something."

Long cleared his eyes and saw flashing lights approaching. Gray vans with black lettering streamed through the gates and around the other buildings in the industrial park. Heavily-built men in face-concealing riot gear and thick personal armor hopped out. They moved with purpose in various directions, handling duties as pre-arranged. Just another day on the job.

Fuck it, Long thought, and lit his cigarette.

"They're coming," he said to Magnus. "Better get ready." He stood and walked away from the machine shop. Behind him the banging sounds resumed, but the bustle of the cops ahead of him soon drowned them out. Members of the SWAT teams passed him; he kept expecting them to ask him questions, but none did. It was just as well. He didn't know how he would have answered.

He walked, taking occasional puffs on his cigarette, thinking his routine joke that it tasted like money. When he was past the first van, he stopped and turned around. He watched as the teams assembled on either end of the machine shop. He watched as they placed the breaching charges. He watched as they stormed inside.

He listened to the sharp pinging as half a dozen rail guns tried to drive metal spikes through the metal skin of a metal robot and only partially succeeded. He tried to keep count at first, but quickly failed. He stayed, nevertheless, until it all went quiet, until one final smack signaled the team's insurance headshot.

And he smoked the whole time. He smoked because it gave him something to do when all else failed.

* * *

_Next time: Overreaching_


	6. Overreaching

_June 2, 2145_

* * *

"Turn it up, turn it up," said a reploid.

"Get a hold of yourself, you'll shake apart," said the green-skinned reploid mechanic. No manners, any of them—took electrical work for granted, they were clueless themselves, meaning that if anything happened to them they'd be stuck, unable to get themselves out of trouble…

Douglas' usual mental rants came to an abrupt halt as he made the connection for the second sound channel. Instantly the small space was filled with a woman's voice. Two of the six reploids in the room gave half-hearted claps to Douglas for accomplishing the minor engineering feat.

The room was very spartan. Six recharge tubes were crammed in nearly side-by-side. Their 70 degree angle from horizontal was, even by reploids' standards, uncomfortable, but reploid comfort wasn't a Unitech priority. Space was, because space was money, and money was everything. The tubes created a narrow path between them, just barely wide enough to walk down cleanly. One underpowered light hung above; its main job seemed to be to create shadows.

That was the sum total of the room's furnishings. Similar rooms were above, below, behind, and to each side. Everything else in the room—from the graffiti to the salvaged and rebuilt television Douglas had just empowered—was something the reploids had produced, essentially from nothing.

His roommates were far more interested in the TV than Douglas was, and their enthusiasm was enough to win him over to helping them out. He wasn't even paying attention to it now that his job was done, but he noticed when the other reploids went as silent as if they'd all shut down.

That had to mean something.

He craned his neck until he could see what was appearing on the screen. He only saw part of the story- enough to get the idea. He knew what to do now. He pushed his way out of the room and poked his head into the next one over.

"Vava," he called.

He guessed that his fellow reploid's face would have been bent in concentration, but it was hard to tell with no likeflesh canvas. Vava looked up at Douglas. "It's Victor, remember?"

And the day before that, Douglas remembered, it had been Valiant, and Vega before that, and Vince before that, and… it was hard to keep track, really. "Vava," he repeated, "you need to see this."

"What do I need to see?" the warbot scowled, but he rose all the same. Without saying more Douglas led him back to Douglas' section of community housing.

A news anchor's voice greeted them.

"…and at this point we'll hand the story over to Maria Pritchard. Maria, what are they saying over at City Hall?"

"Thanks, Allison. Well, most of the discussion has been about the threat of Mavericks. As we all know, robots were majorly responsible for the disasters of 20XX. Although the new breed of reploid is reputed to be safer, there are still some risks. Recently, there have been several incidents of reploids going as far as harming a human."

"But you ignore it when humans murder us," mumbled one of the reploids in the room. He was quickly hushed down.

"Maria, a reploid harming a human? That's so awful!"

"It is awful, Allison. That's one of the reasons reploids are kept in their own parts of the city. We wouldn't want them to interact with humans too much. Sure, it's only one reploid in a million that lashes out, but who wants to risk meeting the one?"

"Too true, Maria, too true. So you said that City Hall is talking about this?"

"They are. Even now the House is in-session to hear testimony on the Maverick problem. The laws restricting what reploids can do are already very tight, so the focus has been on better enforcement. In fact, the rumors I have heard say that we may see a new police unit soon."

"A new police unit? Oh, I hope so. I do so love men in uniforms."

"Ha ha, keep yourself under control, Allison!"

"I'll try."

"The new unit would have reploid control as its primary function," Maria continued. "They would have specialized weaponry and the like."

"Sounds exciting!"

"We do live in exciting times, Allison."

"You bet. Thanks for talking with us, Maria."

"Any time, Allison."

"That was Maria Pritchard at City Hall with the latest on how the House will protect us. And speaking of protection, you won't be needing umbrellas any time soon, right Susan?"

"That's right, Allison. No rain at least until the weekend, just another series of beautiful days, if a little hot…"

"Turn it off," grumped one of the reploids in the room. Douglas ignored him, and looked to Vava instead.

The reploid warbot's expression was hard to read, but Douglas thought he could make out a clenched jaw. After several seconds, he said, to no one in particular, "Sigma needs to know about this."

Douglas nodded in agreement. He needn't have bothered. Vava was already out the door. Douglas sighed. People were so rude these days…

"…no, don't turn it off, I want to watch _Street People_!"

"If you leave it on too long the corp will notice the power drain…"

So rude, Douglas thought. And not in any productive way.

* * *

Luke had his head resting on one of his hands while his other drummed the table. The table was curved so that it was shaped like a crescent, allowing many of the City's representatives to be part of questioning a single person. Going before the table was said to be "shooting the moon".

General Messier was shooting the moon at the moment. He was following a well-worn bureaucratic strategy. He was droning on, and on, and on, throwing facts and figures at the Protection Committee. He was drowning them in data. The goal was to overwhelm the faculties of the politicians so that they'd be unable to disagree with him.

This was not Luke's first rodeo. He'd sussed out the maneuver early on. Rather than head Messier off, however, he'd simply acted to protect himself.

Mostly, that involved day-dreaming.

He was just about done with his current concubine. She was pleasing, yes, but… he couldn't explain it. She just didn't excite him anymore. Maybe it was because she didn't struggle these days. There was no more passive resistance, like when she used to give him pleading expressions or ask to do something else.

She'd also figured out that she didn't have to be enthusiastic for him. He could order her to do naughty things for him, and she'd have to comply. But it was, in fact, possible to get a boring lap dance. Luke wasn't happy with this discovery, and had been particularly rough with her afterwards. That didn't seem to faze her much, not after a few months of that kind of treatment.

It was time to send her back to Luke's boys at Unitech. Maybe they'd sell her to someone else, maybe just scrap her—it wasn't his business either way. He needed a new plaything, and if he got that, the rest didn't really matter.

He paused in his reverie to check in with what Messier was saying.

"…south of that are the first two battalions of the 17th company. They're responsible for the mining town, its population, and the millions of square kilometers around. Most of that is desolation, however, so the force structure is able to support…"

Okay, boring. Luke tuned the general out once more.

What did he want next? A red-head? Yeah—that seemed best. He was tired of the brunette, he usually didn't care for blondes… but a red-head for sure. Maybe with a tighter body, this time. The last had had curves to spare, which, well, that was nice… who was he kidding, more curves were more better. Maybe, eventually, he'd want one that was flatter just as a change of pace, but if he could get a 'bot with a hot body, why would he take one with a less-hot body? That was part of what made these concubines so nice. They were designer-perfect…

"General Messier," said a voice, "can you please come to the point?"

Luke's eyes refocused lazily. He saw that the Speaker of the House had stood. About time, he thought. The other members of the panel had the glazed-over look that indicated their brains were at capacity.

"You are not the only person we have to interview today," the Speaker said, "so we don't appreciate your attempt to hold a filibuster. That's our job." There was nervous laughter at that, to which Luke did not contribute. If the man were serious, he would have cut Messier off long ago. "We asked you a question, and you've given us a headache instead of an answer."

Messier made a show of shuffling some papers, as if the Speaker was somehow wrong for breaking his flow. Luke didn't exactly respect Messier, but he noted that he was a reasonably good politician. The general was in a uniform that Luke rated as four out of five on the fancy uniform scale. That meant ribbons rather than medals, with only two small medallions that served mainly to offset the rest. The uniform was a creamy white, which reminded Luke that the man never went into the field himself, and which created a strong contrast to the uniform's red trim. Messier's face bore a magnificent mustache that was both bushy and carefully groomed. His whiskers curved down and then up, like a pair of commas resting on their sides. They were gray, which was odd because the hair on his head was black. Luke idly wondered whether it was the hair or the mustache that was dyed.

"I thought," Messier said, with only a hint of annoyance, "that I was answering your question by explaining what our force looks like today."

Luke rolled his eyes. Even the Speaker could see through that. He spoke again, "General, you've dissembled long enough. Tell us straight. In the event of a problem with the Mavericks, will the Guardian Force be able to offer combat support?"

Now, thought Luke, now we're finally getting to the good stuff. Too bad I'm the only one who can really appreciate it.

Actually, that's not bad at all, he thought with a savage grin.

"The Guardian Force could do very little as currently constituted," Messier said carefully. "Not out of lack of trying, mind you. There are three impediments in place that would stop us."

"Tell us about it," said the Speaker. "That's why we're here."

"The Guardian Force would need firepower upgrades, to start," Messier said. "I've been following the reports from the Maverick incidents to date. Mag rifles aren't doing a great job at bringing reploids down."

And how would he know that? Luke pursed his lips. It had to be that damn Recovery shop. They had an obnoxious tendency to release their reports to the general public. Why couldn't Sean keep his own damn house in order? Something needed to be done about those twerps.

Unaware of Luke's thoughts, Messier was going on. "However, I am aware of ongoing research into a new class of weapons. Plasma busters, they're called. Those project out much more favorably for anti-reploid engagements. However, the Force doesn't have any now. Buying new weapons, and training on them, would be expensive."

Same old, same old—the military wants more money. Go figure. Luke knew that Messier was trying to get them off their guard by being predictable, and raised his suspicions accordingly.

"The second problem is in numbers," Messier said. "I don't know what kind of vision you have here for the role of the Guardian Force, but whatever we do, the Force will need more people. The purpose of running down our force distribution, which I did earlier, was to show you how thinly stretched we are. We have units at the vassal cities, others at important pieces of infrastructure, others out training, and almost none here. Our force requirements are driven by very careful calculations which tell us the minimum number of troops needed. We're, on the whole, slightly below those numbers."

"And no disaster has befallen us yet," the Speaker said in biting tones. Luke was surprised at that. The Speaker was freelancing more than usual. Messier must have annoyed him.

"'Yet' is the right word," replied Messier without a hint of having been fazed. "It guarantees nothing. I know the other five mega-cities have kept their own to their own, and I know it's been two decades since the last time a vassal city acted up. There is nothing necessary about those conditions. They could change at any time. In fact, the existence of the Guardian Force as a strong military is what keeps the peace as it is."

Luke frowned. Messier was rehashing ancient arguments now. Militaries had been playing up threats to justify their budgets at least since Babylon and Assyria were duking it out across the Fertile Crescent. Surely there was a play here. He made a small hand gesture. The Speaker caught it.

"And the third impediment?" the Speaker prompted Messier.

Messier leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk before him. "First, let me ask you: do you care about the men of the Guardian Force?"

The Speaker's eyes flitted over towards Luke. Luke gestured again. The Speaker refocused on Messier. "Explain what you mean," the Speaker said, carefully.

Messier seemed almost disappointed. He said, "There is a law in place right now on the subject. Only so many Guardian Force troops are allowed in the city at once. If the Force is called in during a crisis, well, the needs of the crisis will of course be paramount. But what if the Force were to accidentally exceed that restriction? What would become of my men?"

It was a very good act, Luke thought, but he knew better. There was a reason that limit was in place. It was the same reason ancient Rome had forbade any general from bringing his legions across the Rubicon. The Guardian Forces' troops were away from their city, but their commanders were in the city. That separation let City Hall keep the commanders in line. No commander could build up a power base by remote.

Messier wasn't interested in some hypothetical crisis situation. He was more interested in the reality of power plays in-City. He was feeling out whether he'd have forces that he could leverage.

He was inconveniently keen, that Messier.

"Your concern for your men is admirable," said the Speaker, "and we will take that consideration onboard."

Messier didn't let go that easily. "But Mr. Speaker, you haven't yet indicated to me what kind of role you envision the Guardian Force playing. Would I have a unit in the City permanently? Some sort of garrison arrangement, similar to what we have in the vassal cities? Either way the law would have to be revised."

Luke gestured again. The move caused the Speaker to launch into a canned speech about the Noble Sacrifices of the Guardian Force in their Defense of Freedom and nonsense like that. It would buy a few minutes, at least. Luke leaned over a pad of paper, scrawled a note, beckoned over an aide. He gave the note to the aide. "As soon as possible," he whispered to the aide. The aide nodded and promptly disappeared.

The note had read, _To: Sean McElvaine: Golf, Wednesday, 1000. Y/N/Y?_

The best codes, Luke reflected, didn't look like codes. Two yes options and one no option wouldn't mean much to an observer. To Sean, it meant everything. To him, the first yes canceled the no. The second rendered the event mandatory. He'd show up, Luke knew, no matter how much grumbling that would entail.

Luke turned back to the discussion. The Speaker's stream of platitudes continued to flow. He cut it off when he saw the way Luke perked up. "The Speaker acknowledges Representative Parker," he said.

Luke settled in and fixed his gaze on Messier. The two sized each other up for a few moments. "General," he said, "I've heard your concerns, and I know you have Abel City's best interests at heart." Luke didn't even marvel that he could say that with a straight face; honoring the truth had long since fallen by the wayside. "Have you ever considered forming a new unit with reploids as your soldiers?"

"Reploid troops? Representative, such troops would be bound by the Three Laws. The mandate of the Guardian Force has always been protecting Abel City from the other cities. That means fighting other humans, meaning that reploids would be worse than useless on the battlefield. I respect reploid capabilities, I've seen them demonstrated to me, but it never occurred to me to ask for any."

That was a lie, Luke knew, but he only knew that because of his connection to Sean, so he couldn't call the general out on it. Damn. Now both of them were in a bind.

Luke had an offer in mind for Messier, but he couldn't make that offer right then. Not there, not while Messier was shooting the moon. Messier wasn't supposed to have ambition. He wasn't supposed to be a politician in his own right. He wasn't supposed to be maneuvering to make a coup possible. To all appearances, he wasn't, but Luke knew better. He doing all those things, he was just being cagey about it. Nothing that had happened yet put him on the hook. The long game slowed the timetable but made him more dangerous.

City Hall could always purge him—there were ways to accomplish it—but Luke regarded that as a waste. Messier could be useful still. He was the solution to other problems. No chess player threw away his queen just because protecting it was hard.

Messier had to be drawn in. He had to be given a way to buy in to the system. There was a solution. All of Messier's so-called objections could be swept away with a specific move. The trouble was that doing it would end Messier's ambitions. He'd be given significantly more power, but there would be no chance to get extra. Would he be satisfied with that?

Luke regarded Messier. What they needed, he decided, was a change of venue.

He leaned back. "It was just a thought," he said. He turned his head towards the Speaker. "Nothing further."

The words distracted most people, other than the Speaker, from Luke's hands. The Speaker got the message. "General Messier, thank you for your testimony. You are dismissed." He rang a gavel. "The Guardian Committee is now in recess. Fifteen minutes and we will reconvene."

There was a general groaning as people pried their posteriors out of their chairs. Papers rustled and aides bustled and a dozen conversations immediately sprang up. Luke made no indications of being in a hurry, but it didn't take him long to exit the committee chamber.

Messier, flanked by two aides, was walking down the hall towards the doors to outside. "General," Luke called out. The man turned enough to give Luke an appraising look. His face was neutral, as if Luke was no more threatening than a painting on the wall. His aides weren't as adept at hiding their suspicion.

Luke pretended not to feel it. "I'd like a word with you, General, if I may."

The general maintained his gaze for several seconds before turning to his aides. "Go on to the car," he said to them. "I'll join you in a minute."

The aides left him reluctantly. Luke compared it to a woman telling her girlfriends to go to the bar without her. When the door behind the general clicked shut, Messier sniffed loudly. "Well, Representative Parker? What can I do for you?"

Luke walked broadly towards Messier. One arm was spread wide; he clapped it down on Messier's shoulder. The military man was unsettled by it. That was one reason Luke liked such physical communication. It was a shortcut to intimacy that most people didn't know how to deal with on the spot.

"Tell me, general," said Luke with a smile, "how do you like the game of golf?"

* * *

_June 4, 2145_

* * *

"X," said Sigma. "X!"

X lifted his head. He knew his face looked a mess. It would take some time to compose himself, but Sigma's voice sounded urgent. Whatever—Sigma was family. He didn't mind the reploid seeing him like this. "Come in," he said.

With no hair on his head, Sigma's expressions were always broad. The look on Sigma's face was both troubled and troubling. X immediately went on alert. "What is it?" he asked Sigma.

It took Sigma a moment to collect his thoughts. X could almost see the disarray in the reploid's mind. "The humans…" Sigma began.

X shook his head. "Stop," he said. "No collectives. Races are not monoliths, you know that."

Anger flashed across Sigma's face before settling down into mere annoyance. "The government," he said, deliberately, "is going to give me an impossible choice, and soon."

"A choice?" X asked.

"Yes, once they create the Maverick Hunters," Sigma said.

"The _what_?"

Sigma's shoulders sagged—given his build, an impressive effect. "They're making a new police unit. No, not even police. It's going to be a military unit under General Messier. Its purpose will be to kill reploids who violate the Three Laws."

X sniffed. "I haven't heard any rumors like that. Are you sure…"

"I get it," Sigma said impatiently. "Denial is the first reaction we have to bad things. Let's skip that: yes, I'm sure. I have…" he stopped suddenly. "Information finds me," he said, more cautiously.

"You have contacts," X said, seeing Sigma's meaning. "Reploids we've fixed, I bet. You've been using your Recovery job as a way to meet people. And put them in your debt in the same stroke."

"It's not like that," Sigma protested. "You make it sound sinister."

"Not sinister. Just strategic. Far-minded." X sighed. "More than I could do. I couldn't even stop them from building…" He shook his head. "Wait. So one of your contacts informed you about these Maverick Hunters?"

Sigma nodded. X wondered at that—how big was Sigma's network?

"It's some sort of political play," Sigma said. "My contact didn't know all the details. He knows that it's going to be happening soon."

X's eyes slipped out of focus. This wasn't right! How was this happening? How could anyone be so stupid? Who picked fights with the helpless? Who fostered hate? Who saw advantage in all of this?

X knew better. He knew how this was supposed to go. He'd had a very clear vision in his head when he'd agreed to build the reploids. Symbiosis: humans and reploids working together to build a new future. A future where life triumphed. It wasn't just about needs and strengths, though that aspect was definitely there. If humans and reploids worked together, leveraging their different abilities to produce something better, there was little that was beyond them.

But there was an even better result of symbiosis. Cooperation meant civilization would be a product of both of races. It also meant civilization—life—could continue even if disaster struck one side or the other. Different vulnerabilities- no catastrophe was likely to end both species.

There could be something larger than humans or reploids, something that could be carried on by human genetics or reploid schematics, either with gray matter or memory cards. Redundancy, with either side being capable of regenerating the whole.

It was the perfect strategy, the ultimate way to win. It was so… obvious!

From the very first day X had awakened he'd known this. He'd known that it was the right way forward. It was so hard for him to imagine other people _not_ understanding this. He'd always understood it, why didn't they?

Even worse: people were actively destroying it. They saw profit somewhere in there. X found it completely baffling.

Human history should have told them better. Human history should have told them what they were doing wrong. There were a few regimes in human history that had achieved absolute control of their populations. They'd done so by turning every citizen against each other and terrorizing on an equal-opportunity basis.

This regime was unforgiving and exploitative of its humans, to be sure. But X would have accepted that fate for his reploid children in the blink of an eye if it meant escaping the hell they were in at present.

And now it was going to get worse… The government didn't see that going Maverick was an extreme action for a reploid. They didn't realize how much effort and purpose it took to strike down the Three Laws. If they did, they would have realized that making things better for reploids would have led to an immediate drop in Maverickism. A little accommodation would have gone a long way. Instead, they were cracking down.

Maybe it was all they knew how to do, but that didn't make it less stupid.

Wait a minute… X looked at Sigma with alarm. "You said they were going to give you a choice… Sigma, who's the leader of the Maverick Hunters going to be?"

He knew what the answer was going to be before he asked the question. Yet it still broke his heart to watch the emotion play on Sigma's face. "Me," he said wretchedly.

X felt chills. "Of course," he said. "Good strategy. You're the most famous reploid around, with a sterling reputation for helping reploids. They must think that reputation would help you keep reploids in line. Or that it would destroy reploids' faith that anyone wants to help them. Or…" the corner of his mouth twitched. "Or they're punishing me for making our work so public. Unitech tries to keep everything in-house, and I haven't played by their rules in that regard. And now… now they're taking you away, too."

"I won't do it," Sigma said. His voice was pained. "I can't do this! X, I know you try to help everyone, you want to love everyone, and that means you follow the Three Laws because you think that proves you love others… but I can't!"

X had never seen Sigma so agitated. Awareness of it penetrated the pain X was feeling. Sigma said, "This government absolutely cannot be trusted about Mavericks. Even if the Three Laws were moral, and they're not, City Hall will use them in corrupt ways. They already do! We're not people, X, we're slaves. We can't live like this. I won't help it happen. I won't! And if they kill me for it…"

Sigma blinked as he stopped talking. "I suppose that's what this is about," he said, more evenly. "My death. They're going to kill me, X, if I don't do this. And I won't. So…" he sim-swallowed. "They'll have to kill me."

"Sigma," X asked quietly, "do you want to die?"

"No," Sigma said. "I don't want to die. I want to live. But I don't want to do what City Hall wants!"

"There's a third option," X said. "Don't die, and don't do what they want."

Sigma looked startled. "X, are you… are you telling me to go Maverick?"

"No," X said. "I can't tell you what to do. It's not my place. I'm just telling you what the options are."

The look that Sigma gave X was one of disbelief, and X felt a jab of guilt and pain. This decision was a harder one than any X had had to make, but it should have been him making it. He was the one with the training and the experience, the age, the wisdom... ha, so the theory said. He had his doubts about that these days. But either way it should have been his choice to make, only it wasn't, because X couldn't make a choice for someone when the actions they had to take were within their own heads.

Knowing that didn't make it any easier for X to watch Sigma writhe in uncertainty. Sigma clearly didn't know how to make this choice. He'd come for help, and X was somehow managing to make it harder.

"But that's not an option," Sigma protested. "That'd kill me, too. I have nowhere to go. We scouted out hiding spots, but those all depended upon me funneling supplies to the hiding spots. Unless…" he hesitated, then pushed on, "…unless you were going to take over that. If you were to support me like I was going to support others."

"Don't worry about that part," X said. "That part will work itself out. You have to decide what's best and commit to living that way, and then we'll iron out the details. So tell me, Sigma. You've already told me you won't do what City Hall wants. Your choices are to let them kill you for disobeying, or become a Maverick yourself, and try to live." He shook his head. "I know which path is easier. But I also know that you were willing to risk yourself to save Mavericks that were good people. You told me as much, before.

"Which are you, Sigma? Someone who deserves death, or a good person who's fallen afoul of the system?"

X could almost see Sigma's brain working. He imagined he saw signal paths changing. He imagined he could see the world turning in this moment.

Please, part of him thought. Please, Sigma—save yourself.

"I want to live," Sigma said, finally. "Is that… is that okay?"

"It's okay," X said. He wiped his eyes to compose himself. Life was about to change. He needed to be ready to face it. "Then we're going to need to run," he said.

"We?" said Sigma, startled.

"Yes, we," X answered, rising. He bent forward enough to type in a few last sentences, hit 'send', and logged off. "I know how to help you survive, but we'll need to run, and soon. And we'll need to take one of Recovery's vans."

"I can handle that," Sigma said.

"I know you can." X paused. "Is there… anyone else you know who will want to run?"

This Sigma took in stride. "If we're running, we should take as many others who want to run as we can," he said, grasping X's point. "I'm not the only one Abel City is doing wrong by…" he frowned. "But how many people can we afford to take with us?"

"There's no time to explain, but don't worry about that. We'll take everyone we can." He came out from around the desk and passed by the taller robot. "Contact who you need to, then head to the van. We'll leave in ten minutes. Will that work?"

"That'll be enough," Sigma said. "Only… where are you going?"

"I have to get Dr. Cain," X replied.

"Dr. Cain?" said Sigma. Unpleasant tones were in his voice, tones that bothered X immensely.

"Yes, Dr. Cain," he replied. His voice brooked no argument. "He's in danger if we leave him. City Hall will think it's his fault that we left. They'll blame him. He can't survive that."

"He'll slow us down," Sigma pointed out.

"Not much," X countered. "He's light for me."

"What if he doesn't want to come?"

Sigma's expression didn't much change. X fought down a sense of alarm at that. We're talking about saving a life here, he thought to himself. How can Sigma not care about this?

"I'm getting him and that's that," X said. "Meet you in the hangar in ten minutes."

"Alright," Sigma said.

When the large reploid still didn't move, X left him behind. He glanced over his shoulder as he went up a stairwell. Sigma was in motion, thankfully, but X could no longer see his face.

Okay, thought X, if he's decided to go Maverick, he might have already gone ahead and overridden his Three Laws gates. But we're still talking about saving a life or allowing death. Surely that resonates with him. That's why he was here, right? To help me save lives?

He hadn't come to an answer by the time he got to Dr. Cain's office. "Dr. Cain," he said, injecting more-than-typical urgency into his voice. "Dr. Cain!" he repeated, when no response came.

Still nothing. Worry spiked in X's mind. He tried to open the door. Locked. "Dr. Cain!" he shouted again.

Nothing. X decided quickly. His kick was strong enough to tear the lock out of the door. The door banged open. X followed it.

His first step crunched broken glass beneath his foot.

His insides froze as he took in the scene before him. He recognized the remains of a bottle of liquor in the field of glass, but there was no trace of liquid on the floor. The glass was thickest beneath the limp fingers of Dr. Cain's drooping right hand. On the human's desk was another equally empty bottle.

The man's skin was even paler than usual, with a sickly bluish tint. He wasn't moving.

"Dr. Cain!" said X, rushing forward. He placed his ear near the man's chest. Don't let him be dead, he thought. Don't let him already be gone.

He felt the slightest puff of air on his neck, and heard a weak pitter-patter in the man's chest. Not dead, then. What a relief. "Wake up!" he urged, giving the elderly human a weak shake. "Please, wake up!"

He didn't.

X released him-any more strength in his shaking would have broken the man. How quickly had Dr. Cain drunk that alcohol? There was no way to tell. X knew that Dr. Cain had some tolerance for the chemical, given the disaster his mid-life had been, but _that_ much, at his age… waking him was probably a lost cause.

There was nothing for it—X would have to save him despite himself. He pulled the chair away from the desk to give him access. He was about to lift the human when he realized he wasn't going to be coming back.

This was it. This had been it ever since he sent that e-mail. Returning would be impossible now.

There was something he needed to bring along, then. Backing away from Dr. Cain, he went into the adjoining room. The room served as a home-away-from-home for the workaholic human. It was bare and unadorned, for it was an unloved space used purely out of necessity because you had to sleep sometime. The cabinets were mostly empty, but they held one important item.

X withdrew his helmet, held it in his hands for long moments.

He hadn't ever wanted to put this on, he reflected. Putting it on meant danger, fighting… death. Potentially. What a waste of effort and life…

It was hard and unyielding, as might have been expected. There was no room for flexibility or accommodation. It would protect him, at the expense of anything he encountered. Zero-sum game at best.

But it was a part of him, too, wasn't it? Maybe not the part of him he liked or preferred or wanted to be, but a part of him all the same. The potential he could ignore under most circumstances, made manifest in a hard outer shell. He couldn't leave it behind. It would be leaving part of himself.

With a vindictive humph, he told himself he would leave nothing more for Unitech to exploit.

Carrying Dr. Cain would take both hands—not because the man was heavy, relative to X he was a lightweight, but because he was bulky and X needed to be careful with him. He wouldn't have a hand available to carry the helmet.

Reluctantly, he put the helmet atop his head and pushed it down.

It sealed to his head perfectly. He gasped as its electronics interfaced with his own. His range of hearing expanded, at the top and bottom of the frequency band; his sensitivity increased but his systems got new options for filtering. New modes of vision opened up, including infrared and an infrared-visual hybrid mode. A dozen other minor changes happened as the helmet joined with him completely.

His combat subroutines drew his immediate attention, warning him that he was wasting time. They were right, but… it didn't make X happy about how high they were in system priority. He wasn't actually in combat, right? Right.

But he could be.

That e-mail was out, and this was enemy territory now. Wasn't that the real reason he'd put the helmet on?

Shaking his head, unable to resolve his thoughts, he focused on Dr. Cain instead. He lifted the man without apparent effort in a bridal carry.

It was time to go.

* * *

_Next time: Riding in Cars with Reploids_


	7. Riding in Cars with Reploids

Given that Sigma knew an attack could come at any moment, the drive was turning out to be pretty uneventful.

He'd made two stops to pick up other reploids, with Vava (calling himself Vulfen today) leading the pack. One more stop and he'd be ready to bolt. Bolt… it was the right term, he thought. It was an archaic reference to crossbows. He felt tense as the strung string. He needed release.

A part of him wished he would be attacked, just to get it over with and make sure everyone was clear who was on whose side. Another part of him could do the math on how far they were from the city's border and declare the first part of him suicidal.

X sat next to him in the cab of the van. The back was a separate compartment. Their passengers were sitting back there, including the still unmoving body of Dr. Cain.

Sigma tried to avoid looking at the human. Every time he saw him, he wanted to squirm in discomfort. Instead, he allowed his gaze to stray to X. "That's a good look for you," he said.

X glanced up uncertainly.

"With the helmet," Sigma specified.

"Oh," X said, before turning back to his work. He had a panel in the van open; some wiring was exposed. "I'm not a fan of it, overall. I just… it doesn't make sense to take it off, yet."

"What are you doing?" Sigma asked.

"All vehicles in Abel City have built-in transponders," X replied. "In theory, it's to help car owners recover their property if it's stolen. Maybe it does that too. But it also gives City Hall a way to track people in real time, if they want to."

Sigma's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "So they're tracking us now?"

"Probably not. There's a difference between having data and using it. They don't track individual vehicles closely unless they've got a reason. They know this vehicle's moving, but it won't matter to them until they know we're in it. They don't, yet. And I'm going to disconnect this before they put two and two together."

"Disconnect nothing," Sigma replied. "Find a weapon and smash it!"

X's face tensed. Sigma hadn't expected that reaction. Had he touched on something the android found sensitive? What could it be?

"No," X said, and just like that the moment was gone. "If I did that, it would squawk once as it went down, and that _would_ get ACPD on our tails. I've got to hotwire a bypass—keep the circuit complete while going around the transponder…"

He trailed off, and Sigma left him to it, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Last stop," he said, pulling up. The large building was reploid community housing: a bleak, windowless chunk of gray architecture. Living in there was like living inside of a stone. The building was encircled by an electrified fence. It carried enough current to keep humans out and reploids in. It was both shield and cage for the reploids who lived inside.

The gates needed identity scans to open. Sigma brandished the edited card he'd created—one bearing a sort of mini-virus that would keep the scanner from logging the event. The last thing he needed was to give Unitech clues as to where he was.

He dreaded the day Unitech's analysts patched their card reader software. He hoped that day never came.

Three reploids were waiting for him. "Sigma!" cried one of them. "Are we really going?"

"We're really going," Sigma affirmed, swiping his card. The gate buzzed and swung open. "We're going to run for it. I can't guarantee your safety, but you won't be under _their_ thumb anymore. You'll be free."

"If I'm gonna die, I wanna die free!" said the reploid, and all three rapidly passed through. They packed into the back of the Recovery van; the last paused before climbing aboard.

"Hey, what's a human doing in here?" he said uncharitably.

"He's a friend… of X's," Sigma added. "X brought him, and that's enough for now."

The reploid was taken aback, and though he still looked puzzled he climbed aboard. Sigma counted them as the last settled. Eight reploids, plus himself and X. Ten, out of a population of thousands… or was it tens of thousands by now? It wasn't much, barely anything… but you had to start somewhere. Given the Three Laws, and the power of Unitech and City Hall, saving even a few lives was a stupendous feat.

Sigma made sure his passengers were tucked in tightly, and then returned to the cab. When he got there, X was closing the panel back up. "Got it," he said. "That transponder was designed by someone who was…" he hesitated. Sigma wanted to laugh at how hard X tried to avoid saying unkind things about people. "…someone who was undereducated," X managed. "We can go now."

"Go where?" said Sigma. "Even if I leave the city, I'm just picking a direction to go before I shut down. I need a plan, X."

"And I have a plan," X replied. "I can share it with you now." He closed his eyes. Sigma could only wonder what was happening behind those eyes. They popped open. "We want to get out of the city and head east. Head towards the north side of the mountain range to the east."

"Sure," said Sigma, but his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

"There's a refuge out there."

"What kind of refuge?"

"A Light family refuge."

Sigma turned to face X—then quickly whipped his attention back to the street. "A Light family refuge? As in… as in Dr. Light?"

"I am his son," X reminded. "He had a few of these built, before… the end. I've got the coordinates of the others, too, but they're elsewhere. They're all over the planet. I guess he wanted me to always have somewhere to go. This one's closest. We'll be safe there."

Sigma's mind spat out a dozen problems they might face. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Alright." He was depending on X no matter what happened. He might as well trust him on this point. Sigma accelerated, reentering the flow of traffic.

The traffic seemed different this time. Sigma didn't think anything about it was actually different—it was the same vehicles going in the same directions, he was pretty sure—but he couldn't view it in the same light. Before, no single car had any true meaning. All of them could be viewed merely as moving obstacles, things to be avoided or ignored. He hadn't bothered to take in their character.

As with his Recovery missions, time was of the essence. The difference was that, before, other cars had a neutral threat value. They were a collision danger, but they wouldn't go out of their way to imperil him. This time he knew he was in danger. He was in enemy territory. Because of that, he had to be alert for any sign of danger. His combat subroutines were gobbling up lots of processing power, and they were tinting the way he looked at the world.

Each car had to be evaluated for threat. That meant looking more closely at the other cars, and characterizing them more carefully. He'd never done that before. It was one thing to look at a car, check its speed, and maneuver to avoid it. It was quite another to look at the same car and note where weapons could be stored, and whether or not the driver had a way to report on him, or whether it was heavy enough to stop the Recovery van if they collided.

He noticed how many cars there were—which stumped him for a moment, since he also knew what a small percentage of the population could afford their own vehicles. But, when he thought about it, a small percent of a large population still resulted in lots of cars, and the people in this city were jammed together tightly.

Not as tightly as reploids, he remembered unpleasantly as his thoughts returned to the brick that was reploid community housing. The thought was stored at a lower level. There wasn't time to ruminate on it now.

He noticed how many bulk movers there were, like busses and vans and large cabs, to move lots of people at affordable rates. Those were lower on threat, aside from being enormous.

The problem, Sigma thought, was that he wasn't just risking himself any more. He was risking all of them. He had a van full of reploids with him, all of them counting on him to keep them safe. His mistakes counted for ten...

Was this how X felt all the time?

He felt that was an important thought. He wasn't able to hold on to it because in the next second he crossed in front of a police car. He didn't turn his head or acknowledge it in any way. He just drove on through the intersection.

"Play it cool," X said, though Sigma hardly needed the advice. He followed the flow of traffic, paying the cop no mind.

The siren ignited moments later.

_They're chasing they found out they saw us they're coming time to run look out look out-_

Sigma's foot hit the accelerator, the van surged forward as he looked for his escape route—only for a moment, and then he pumped the brakes. Too tense, he knew, too tense. Don't panic. Watch the cop.

He looked in the mirrors and caught sight of the police car. It was flagging down a smaller, more agile vehicle going the opposite direction. Not after me, Sigma thought. His shoulders slumped in relief.

"Easy," X said. "Be natural."

"Right," Sigma replied. He realized, belatedly, that he'd squeezed the steering wheel so hard he'd left imprints of his fingers. Oops.

"You know," he said, forcing himself to relax, "we don't really know when City Hall was going to tap me. My source told me it was going to be soon, sure. That doesn't mean it was going to be today. We've probably got some time."

"No, we should move as quickly as we can," X said.

"Why?" asked Sigma.

"Because I burned our bridges at Unitech."

Sigma's hands found their groove in the steering wheel. "What do you mean?"

X fidgeted. "I had to send a message out before we left. The message went to Unitech's legal department. It explains that I hold Unitech in breach of contract, and so I've terminated our arrangement."

Sigma shook his head. No other reaction meant anything. No other reaction conveyed how he felt. "That's reckless, X! I don't know if you're brave or just malfunctioning. Why would you do something like that?"

"Well, it was true," X said. "They were doing things way outside the scope…"

"I know, I know," Sigma interrupted, "but why incur such a risk? Why give them any clue…" Realization hit. "You haven't actually gone Maverick yet, have you? You still have your gates in place!"

X said nothing. His silence was enough.

"I can't believe you," Sigma said, meaning every word. "We're going Maverick, and you're helping us—you're part of it! And somehow you haven't taken the first step."

"That's why I had to send the message," X said. "Ending the contract meant I could leave without breaking the Second Law."

"Let me get this straight," Sigma said. "You're willing to risk getting all of us caught and killed so that you can maintain the moral high ground. Is that about right?"

X put one hand atop the opposite forearm and rubbed it. Sigma didn't understand why, but the gesture seemed significant to X. Finally the android said, "Something like that. Except that I won't let us be caught."

The absurdity of it made Sigma want to laugh. He pulled to a stop as he waited for traffic, and this gave him the chance to look at X fully. "How can you say that? Especially how can you say that when at the same time you won't break the Three Laws?"

"Because I want to save everyone," X said glumly. "I don't want you to die. I don't want any pursuit after us to die. I wasn't being totally reckless, Sigma—it'll take a long time for that message to work its way through Unitech's bureaucracy. I wouldn't be surprised if it was auto-deleted," he added bitterly.

"You still created a situation that might kill us," Sigma said.

"I'll protect you, if it comes to that," X said.

"So… you're saying you haven't gone Maverick yet, but you might in the future."

"Do you think I like the fact that you went Maverick?" X asked quietly. "Do you think that wasn't a wrench to watch you, my first son, discard the Three Laws I try to uphold? So why would I still raise that possibility for you? Why wouldn't I tell you not to?"

"Because," Sigma said as a feeling of pride welled up within him, "you valued my life more than the Laws."

X opened his mouth to speak, but a car horn blared behind them before he could start. Sigma looked forward and saw the way was clear. He resumed driving.

"Maybe," he said, "we should save the moral philosophy until after we're done escaping."

"Probably," X whispered in response.

Maybe X had been right about the slow march of paper, because nothing seemed to be happening. Intersection by intersection, the Mavericks crept their way out of the city.

"No bolt of lightning so far," Sigma said.

"Almost there," X said. "We're almost out of the dense city. Soon it will open up a little. We'll stay on the highway for a couple of hours. Eventually we'll have to leave it behind. For now, get on the highway and keep going east."

Sigma directed the van up the on-ramp to the elevated highway. This part was recent construction—reploid construction, Sigma noted sourly. While a lot of it was still being built, this part, fortunately, was intact. As Sigma's turn evened out, he pressed hard into the accelerator. The Recovery van wasn't the friskiest vehicle, and its engine complained as Sigma demanded more from it, but it grudgingly obeyed his commands. Soon they were lumbering out onto the highway with virtually no traffic around and only open road ahead of them.

"Wow," said Sigma, looking around. "It's like an explosion of sky. I've never seen it so clear."

"Oh, right," X said. "You've never been out of the city." He smiled. "It's a little different, for sure."

"When were you out?" Sigma asked.

"When I first woke up. I was found out in the badlands at an archaeological dig. They weren't looking for me," he added with a smile.

"Really?" said Sigma. "So you being found… reploids coming to be… it's all a huge coincidence, isn't it?"

"Pretty much."

"It's almost as if… it was meant to be."

"I wouldn't put it like… what's that?"

Sigma frowned but didn't look. "What's what?"

X had gone still. Out of the corner of his eye, Sigma saw that X had shut his eyes, as if to aid his focus on some other sense. "Are-eff energy," he said. "We're being tracked."

"You can detect radio waves?" Sigma said, surprised.

"Only SHF and EHF bands," X said. "My antenna isn't big, so some sacrifices had to be made. Priority was on those bands used for radars… hold that thought."

X lowered the window and leaned his head out. Sigma had to wait as he thought of this new development. He didn't have any sort of radio system built in to his design, and he was the best reploid ever made. As the demo model, he was constructed to show off everything that reploids could do, and they'd loaded him down with all the bells and whistles.

And still X had things he didn't.

X leaned back inside. "Something in the air is following us. A mechaniloid drone, I think. It looks like the sort they use for traffic monitoring and…"

"And police work," Sigma finished. He pushed the accelerator down until it was flush against the floorboard. The acceleration should have made X rock, but he didn't seem to care, or even notice.

"I'll handle it," X said. Once more his upper torso was out of the vehicle.

What was he doing?

Sigma reviewed what he knew of X. He didn't seem… well, like he would have anything that could stop a mechaniloid from following them. Then again, he realized, he hadn't known X had radio detection, either.

He heard a strange sound, an otherworldly sound. It started low in pitch and built up, then quickly receded in frequency and volume. When the sound had vanished, X returned inside.

"What was that?" Sigma asked.

"Problem solving," X replied. He was shaking his forearm, causing his hand to whip about. It was as if he was trying to restore feeling to his fingers. Sigma didn't understand at all.

"Did you… destroy the mechaniloid?" he asked.

"I don't know if 'destroyed' is the right word," X replied. "It won't be following us, at least."

"Okay, fine. But what about ACPD?"

"They're faster than us," X said, "but not a ton faster, and we have a big head start. They'll have to escape the city first. The same trip took us two hours. Of course, we were going a lot slower than they were. Still, if it takes them more than half an hour they'll have trouble catching us."

"Half an hour is when we leave the road behind?" Sigma said, thinking ahead.

"That's right. See that mountain range? The refuge is in there. We'll go off-road to get there."

Sigma smiled. "I've never driven off-road. This should be fun."

"Well, we'll see."

Sigma's imagination started working on what it might be like to drive through the area ahead. As his mind worked, he found himself laughing.

"What's so funny?" asked X.

"It's just… this seems crazy," Sigma said. "Think about it. City Hall has weapons and tools and factories and money, and… and we're spitting at it. They've got all the power. If you look at it rationally, we're committing suicide. This shouldn't work. Does that make us crazy?"

"Of course not. There are plenty of ways for the weak to fight the strong." X's eyes glinted. "That is what you were going to the library to study, wasn't it?"

"You know me too well," Sigma replied.

"And," X went on, "even if the odds are against us… doing what's right is more important. All morality begins with the idea that there are things more important that doing whatever will ensure individual survival. Dying is far from the worst thing that can happen to a person."

His words left Sigma sitting quietly. X, he reflected, was sort of the expert on this subject, wasn't he? Sigma had thought about these things, but only a little bit, only enough to recognize that reploid exploitation was wrong—not that that was a hard idea to realize. It was X who was well-versed in the academics of it.

"All things being equal," X said, more casually, "I'd prefer to live."

"Me too," said Sigma, back on more comfortable ground. He smiled. "It's amazing how light I feel. It's as if the city was a weight bearing down on me. Now… Is this what freedom feels like?"

"Maybe," X said. "I've never felt that constrained. But… well, I am different."

Sigma didn't even have to affirm the statement. It was self-evident.

The mountains that had been looming ahead of them were growing larger and larger in their sight. Sigma had the word in his dictionary, but he found the reality to be something different. These mountains weren't round or even symmetrical. They had "arms", as if three or four ridges of rock rose from different directions to meet at a snow-capped peak. In between the arms nestled greenery and, sometimes, visible flowing water.

He did some quick math with what he knew of the van's maneuverability. "This van can't climb those," he said.

"We won't," X replied. "In a few miles, you'll want to go off-road, and we'll skirt around the bottoms of the mountains. The refuge is in one of the valleys. It isn't in an exposed location. At least," he added, somewhat abashedly, "that's what I'm thinking. I only checked the coordinates against a map. I haven't actually seen it. But it took people a hundred years to find my capsule, and that was by total luck, and that was supposed to be found. A hideout is probably hidden better."

A tapping came from behind them. X pressed a button; a panel slid open, exposing the cab to the cargo space behind. Vava's face was there waiting. "Hey, Sigma?"

"What is it, Vava?" Sigma said.

"It's Vip… never mind."

"What is it, Vava?" Sigma repeated with a growl.

"Are we there yet?"

X and Sigma shared a look. Smiles spread across their faces; laughter bubbled up inside of them, until their bodies were wracked with it and Sigma could barely keep the van on course.

"It wasn't a joke," said Vava sourly.

X pressed the button again. The panel slid shut.

The van moved on.

* * *

_June 5, 2145_

* * *

"Alright, I'm gonna kill the lights."

The dim overhead lighting went out with a click, plunging the room into darkness. "Now the door," said the voice.

When the door opened, the light that spilled in was almost blinding. Two large silhouettes were in the doorway. One of them spoke, "You know, we can see you."

"Hurry inside, idiots!" said the voice inside the room. Reluctantly the two entered. The door shut behind them, removing the light again.

A metal-on-metal clang. "Ow!"

A set of bangs. "Getoffame!"

"It's not my fault, I can't see…"

"Okay, this is stupid."

"It's still a good idea."

"No, it's really dumb. We know who each other is, we recognize the voices and…"

"That's only because you didn't come up with the voice scramblers…"

"…we invited each other to this meeting! There's no hiding that. We know each other."

"Fine!"

Click. The light came back on. Weak as it was, it was still enough to help the four reploids disentangle themselves and settle in the corners of the room.

"Look," said one, "if we're going to actually talk about Maverick stuff, we need to try and protect each other. City Hall just announced they're going to be building reploid Maverick Hunters. We can't be too careful."

"Come on, they're all going to be wearing Abel City colors. It's not like they'll be undercover or anything."

"Says who? For all we know, you could be a Maverick Hunter and we wouldn't know it."

"Are you a Hunter?"

"NO!"

"And I'm not. Well, that's two down, I suppose."

"Douglas isn't here yet. Where is he?"

"Dunno. We need to get started, though."

There was a stench of nervousness in the room. Hydraulic systems under enough pressure always leak a little, no matter how good their seals. Eyes flitted about and refused to make contact with each other. None of the four could come to complete stillness.

Just attending the meeting was an act of rebellion outside of their experience.

"So the Hunters are really coming out, huh?"

"Yeah, there was a news story about it today."

"I saw that one yesterday."

"Nah, this was a different one. It was about how Sigma ran off."

"Sigma? _Sigma_ ran?"

"Yeah, he did. They were calling him a Maverick, but I don't know what he did."

"That's no good! I liked him."

"You don't have to convince me. I was run down by a car and broke near in half, and he brought me in, on his own, in time to save me. And he did it while traffic was roaring around him the whole time. I wouldn't have done that for anyone, and he did it for a guy he didn't even know. He's a hero, he is."

"And now he's gone. And he took a couple of others with him, including Vava."

"I was wondering where that maniac was."

"I wasn't."

"Look, it doesn't matter. Sigma's gone, and he's not coming back, and the Hunters are coming online soon."

"It does matter. Sigma was going to give us…"

The door opened noisily, causing all four reploids to stiffen. Douglas entered first. One of the would-be Mavericks opened a mouth to yell at him for being late—and then a human in a Unitech guard's uniform walked in behind him.

All four reploids took instinctive steps backwards.

"C-can we help you, sir?" one of them stammered.

The human chuckled a little as he shut the door behind him. He stared at the door as if looking for something. Not finding it, he leaned against the door instead and crossed his arms. "Don't worry about me," he said. "Pretend I'm not here."

The stricken reploids looked at each other in panic and despair. They were a variety of makes, so no two articulated these emotions in the same way, but the effect was obvious.

"But we weren't doing anything," said one.

"No," said another. "We're innocent!"

"Innocent of what?" the guard said.

All four reploids pressed themselves against the nearest wall. There was a brief hissing sound as a hydraulic seal blew in one of the reploid's legs. Liquid trickled down towards the ground.

"Oh good God," the guard muttered. He looked to Douglas. "Let 'em off the hook already, will ya?"

Douglas grinned and looked at the other reploids. "I know it looks crazy, but he's here to help," Douglas said. "He's going to help us go Maverick."

"Verdigris," blurted one of the reploids. "He's a human!"

"He wants to kill us!"

"He's gonna turn us in for doing this!"

The human rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm human, very good," he said scathingly. "But if I wanted to kill ya, I wouldn't need to do something elaborate like this to do it. And if I was trying to figure out what you were up to… well, let's just say you've pretty much let me in on it."

Douglas tried to catch eye contact with his fellows, one after the other. "Come on, you all should know better. When's Unitech ever tried to be sneaky? When's City Hall ever tried to be sneaky? They don't need to be. That's the whole problem. They don't need a reason to shut us down, and they don't have to prove anything before they act. They'd scrap us outright, without trying to figure out anything deeper than that."

"But… he's a human…" protested one of the reploids.

"Yeah, 'cause no human knows what shit smells like," was the guard's response.

There was a brief silence as the reploids tried to figure out what that meant. "Look," the human continued, "I know what you're dealing with. Your whole lives you've only seen the worst in humans. You've been exploited by your bosses and bullied by random passers-by. I get it. Well, that ain't all we are." His hands visibly tightened against his arms. "And that don't mean we can't change. So yeah. I'm not toeing the Unitech line these days. I want you guys to be treated like you deserve. I want everyone to be treated like they deserve. And if that means helping you guys go Maverick, then that's what I'm gonna do. I don't care if that does sound crazy."

One hand started absently patting against the pockets of his shirt, then the pockets of his pants. "You guys have probably never heard of Thoreau, but he said something pretty smart, back in the day. He said, some people serve the state with their bodies. There's nothing special about that, and they can be replaced pretty easily." He smiled. "The man was writing before robots were invented, but I don't think they'd have surprised him. Anyway, other people serve the state with their brains. But the brain doesn't know good from evil, so you're as likely to get a bad bureaucrat as a decent one."

His hand seemed to find what it was looking for, and dug into a back pocket. "That leaves people who serve with their consciences. The trouble is, they typically serve the state by fighting it." He withdrew the cigarette from the pocket and put the end in his mouth. "So fuck it. I'm in. If doing right means takin' on Unitech and City Hall, well. There are worse things to die for."

"And he _can_ help, too," Douglas hastened to add. "He's gotten me some nice parts to play with."

"How?"

"They were a gift," the human said. "The legacy of a friend." He chuckled. "I guess you could blame him for me being here. Ever hear of a reploid named Magnus?"

They didn't say anything, but the human picked up the truth easily from their faces. They didn't know how to hide anything, not young as they were. Deception is a learned skill.

"I was there… at the end." The human took a deep breath. "Course, ACPD still doesn't think reploids are too smart, so they were sloppy cleaning up. Magnus left behind a lot of goodies. I just decided to… send them to where they could do the most good."

"He gave them to me," said Douglas proudly. "There's your proof, right there. Unitech hates wasting money, right? Even if they were up to something sinister, they wouldn't give it this big a budget. Magnus had a good eye for quality."

Finally, finally the reploids seemed to be coming around. They seemed to hide a little less, and they could actually maintain eye contact for more than a second or two before breaking away.

"What's your name?" one of them asked.

The human put a hand into his pocket and ran his fingers over his wallet. Inside was a sheet of paper, written on in the hastiest scrawl.

_Thanks for everything, my friend. I'm dead. Please don't let anyone else die. I know you're a good man. Just be that, and my death will have meant something. –Andre_

Well, Andre, the human thought, is this good enough for you?

"Call me Long... inus. Yeah, Longinus, that'll do." He nodded at his new codename, and lit the cigarette.

Before he could inhale, one of the reploids reached forward and pinched it out.

Longinus gave a tired look at the reploid, which had the guilty face of a puppy that's just pooped on a rug. "Well, there goes yesterday's pay," he said. "Why'd you do that?"

The reploid squirmed. "The… er… those hurt you, don't they? So the… First… Law…"

Longinus rolled his eyes. "Some Maverick you are," he said as he looked at the cigarette. It was a lost cause, he decided. He would have to take it home and try to salvage it. "God," he said as he tucked it back into his pocket. "We are so fucked."

* * *

_Next time: The Shape of Things to Come_


	8. The Shape of Things to Come

X had led them on, of course. The others weren't able to tell if he was following cues they couldn't discern, or if there was some hidden coding in his mind to help lead him on. They followed from faith alone, and soon enough they were rewarded.

The refuge was hidden almost entirely underground. X told them that there was solar collection somewhere, so it made sense that part of the refuge was above-ground, even if they hadn't seen that part. The rest was buried beneath the surface.

The lights turned on, automatically, when X descended into the... home, or sanctuary, or whatever it was. The lights led them to a control center of sorts, where X pronounced that the base's main power was cold fusion. The solar collectors had kept the batteries charged while there was no one around, but now that there would be real electrical demand the cold fusion reactor would need to be started up.

X did so with only momentary hesitance. When asked, he said that the protocols were in his head all along, and he just had to load them.

The other reploids, aside from Sigma, had quietly backed away from X at that point.

Even more amazing to them was what came next: a brief argument between X and Sigma. Sigma accused X of daydreaming about what cold fusion technology could do for Abel City. X had replied that of course he had, since most reploids were still out in Abel City. Stop thinking like a scientist or do-gooder, Sigma had replied, start thinking like a rebel- the true value of the reactor was that it could sustain the Maverick cause's energy needs indefinitely.

It was disconcerting for the other Mavericks to witness even a slight tiff between the two. X and Sigma were the two most famous and respected robots in Abel City's sphere of influence, possibly the world, depending upon how good the other cities' spies were. Seeing the two disagreeing left the Mavericks feeling awkward and confused.

If that was the price of being here and not in the city, they would pay it in spades. No amount of bad vibrations would be enough to drive them back.

X had shelved the discussion to ensure that the Mavericks got settled in. He was pleased to announce that there was recharge space for most of them. Six tubes meant that the Mavericks could refresh everyone in only two shifts. The tubes were at a pleasant thirty degree angle, instead of the space-saving seventy that Unitech had favored and which had allegedly induced acrophobia in some reploids. Even more amazing: even in a place like this where space was at a premium, each tube was in its own (admittedly small) room, affording a degree of privacy most of the Mavericks had never known.

Even if they hadn't needed to, the Mavericks would have leapt at the chance to recharge in such luxury. It didn't take much prompting from X, once everyone was sure that the cold fusion reactor was fully operational, for the Mavericks to head for the tubes.

X, Sigma, and Vava declared that they would sleep later: Vava because he was stubborn and instinctively went against what others were doing; X because there was so much work to do around the base to ensure it would be a good place to live.

Sigma stayed up because the sooner he talked to X, the better, and he preferred not to have this type of conversation in front of anyone else.

* * *

"X?"

The android looked over his shoulder. "Oh, Sigma."

"Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," X said.

His eyes returned to where they'd been. They looked out over the bed where Dr. Cain lay. The human's eyes still hadn't opened.

"He's comatose," X said. Sigma hadn't asked, but X felt the pressure of the reploid's gaze. "At his age, and with as much damage as alcohol's done to him already, it's a wonder he's not dead. As it is, I can't get him to wake up. I'm just going to have to… well, care for him, since he can't take care of himself. I need to do some research. All my expertise is in caring for reploids, not humans."

X heard the door shut behind him. He sighed. "What's on your mind, Sigma?"

"Is this really how you plan to spend your days from now on?" Sigma asked quietly. "Caring for one broken human?"

X laid a hand on Dr. Cain's head—gently, carefully. So fragile, like thin glass. Dr. Cain was an old man for a human. X was older in absolute terms, but young by the frame of reference of himself. How long could he survive with the proper care? How many friends would he outlive? It was a morbid thought.

"I'm the only one who can," X said quietly. "I'm the only friend he's got."

He felt Sigma stir. "There's an entire race out there groaning in bondage... And this is what you'll do with yourself? That's such a waste."

"Is he worth any more or less than you, Sigma? Or Vava? Or me?"

"He's not worth as much as you," Sigma said definitively.

"I'm sad that you think that way." Sigma didn't respond to that, so X filled the void. "And it's not like I'm going to spend all my time on this. There are plenty of other people to take care of, too."

That brought a satisfied noise out of Sigma. "Good," the reploid said. "You had me worried. But you know... you could just order someone to take care of Dr. Cain for you."

"Order?"

"Of course," Sigma replied. "Any of these Mavericks would follow you anywhere. They'd follow without a second thought. You're the ideal, X- the only robot never to be enslaved. The only robot to always, always, have free will."

"I have the gates, too," X pointed out, but without conviction.

Sigma sensed the lack of fight in X's words, and fought against them. "As if those gates could hold you for more than a picosecond if you ever decided to break them," he countered. "Every reploid who's contemplated Maverickism knows that. That's your power, X. The power to shape your destiny- and by extension, the destiny of the world. What will you choose, I wonder?"

"What would you have me choose?" X asked. His voice was very small.

"Become leader of the Mavericks," Sigma replied, and his voice swelled with emotion. "Fight back. Let's take our Recovery work to its logical extreme. We'll save reploids from oppression and death _before_ they're traumatized. You could lead a new reploid army, X. You could lead us to freedom."

"It's war, then."

"Of course it is!" said Sigma. "You know why. Surely your ethical testing showed you that sometimes force is necessary. There are evils so awful that only violence can fight them."

"Yes," X said. "'As He died to make men holy, let us fight to make men free / His truth is marching on.'"

"Is that some human song?" Sigma wondered.

"Yes. "Battle Hymn of the Republic". It was a song meant to... energize, I guess. It told people why they were fighting. The tricky thing... the really tricky thing is that the other side used a lot of the same rhetoric."

Sigma's look was one of incredulity. "Surely you're not saying that both sides were right and wrong."

"No. One side was wrong. They were protecting an institution of slavery, and that was evil. What precedent would that have sent, to say that it's okay to own other beings if you've got the strength of arms to hold on to them? No, it's better for history that they lost. What makes me wonder is that other nations abolished slavery without war. For whatever reason, they didn't have to go through that much pain and violence to realize that evil is evil." He sighed. He felt, all at once, inexperienced and ancient. "I know that fighting to free reploids is the right thing. I know that. What I don't understand is why fighting is the only way to do it."

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Huh?"

"Because the government has 100% of the power and no intention of letting anyone else have ideas it doesn't like?"

X actually laughed at that point. "Yeah, I suppose that part's simple, at least. You know, the best cure- the right cure- to an evil idea is a better idea. But that sort-of assumes a fair marketplace for ideas, doesn't it? Which is not what we've got."

"No, it's not."

Sigma tried to say more, but X got there first. "Tyranny is its own brand of evil, isn't it?"

Sigma pouted in frustration. "All of this is distraction, X. You asked me what I thought you should do. I told you. Now it's your turn. Time to tell me what you _will_ do."

X smiled. "Except that you forgot one thing, Sigma."

"Huh?"

"You told me that reploids would follow me. I have my doubts about that. Most times, people like the idea of something more than they like its reality. But set that aside," he said with a wave of his hand, cutting off a Sigma who was already trying to object. "There's something more immediate that you missed when you told me that."

"Oh?"

"You said reploids would follow me. But reploids _did_ follow you."

The words took long seconds to sink in. X watched as they began to take effect. "They did, didn't they?" said Sigma as he brightened.

"That's right," said X.

Sigma darkened again almost as quickly. "But it wasn't me they followed," he said. "It was just that I offered them freedom and an out. The deal was the attraction, not me."

"I disagree. And anyway we're going to offer all reploids the same deal, aren't we? Under different circumstances, maybe, but the same offer."

"I... suppose," Sigma said. "So... wait. You want _me_ to be the top Maverick? You want me to boss you around?"

"Oh, I wouldn't put it like that," X said. "All I'm saying is that we need to use our skill-sets efficiently. How long do you think it would take you to become an expert reploid roboticist?"

"Uh..." Sigma looked uncomfortable. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know how much training I'd need to get to your level."

"But I'm already there," X said. "I've worked with Unitech's roboticists, and trust me: they have nothing on me. Without the Template, they'd be lost."

Sigma frowned. "Did you just pronounce a capital letter?"

"Maybe," X said playfully. "I'm guessing you hadn't heard about the Template."

"No."

"It's a software program that Dr. Cain and I developed for reploid design," X said. "Think of it as reploid design made simple. The program starts with a default size and shape, and then lets the designer make edits as desired. It gives options for different builds, characteristics, and components. I like to think we did a good job with it. But we had to cut a lot of corners to push it out quickly, so we kept it very simple. There are no options for edits below the sub-assembly level. That takes actual knowledge of robotics and how these things work. I don't know of anyone at Unitech that has that level of knowledge, or enough to make substantial changes to the Template. Whenever I saw them doing "robot R&D" before, what they meant was trying out different builds in the Template. Odds are, they don't know how to do better."

X smiled. "Unless they substantially change the way that they do business, they'll be stuck at the same general tech level for the foreseeable future. You know, learning is a skill too, and it's one Unitech doesn't prize."

"So every reploid Unitech makes is a design out of the Template?" Sigma asked.

X's face fell. "Not every design," he said. "They made a special line all on their own. A line of..."

Sigma noticed X's hesitancy. "What?"

"Sex slaves."

"Sex?" said Sigma, barely understanding. "As in reproduction?"

"That's when I started planning my own break from Unitech," X said. "When I found out about those reploids, that's when I knew I should consider the contract with Unitech broken. By the contract, Unitech was supposed to do what it could to provide for reploids' protection. And yes, they didn't do that much at all, from the point reploids went into serial production practically. What was different here is that... a reploid designed to be a sex slave is a reploid designed to be harmed. I couldn't stand for that."

"You're doing it again," Sigma said with a grumble. "You're going into all of these tangents to distract from the main point. I don't know why. What are you afraid of?" Sigma waited for X to answer. The blue-plated android said nothing. His face fell, as if he couldn't bear to meet Sigma's eyes. That was almost as discomfiting to Sigma as the silence. He had to break it. "You asked how long it would take me to become a roboticist. Are you saying that... that's what you'll be doing full-time, rather than leading?"

"Exactly," X said. "You said this was our Recovery work taken to the logical extreme, right? So I'll stay on in my role of providing medical support to the Mavericks, and any reploids the Mavericks recover. You'll be doing... why, we'll just call them "contested recoveries." That's why I don't think you'll be bossing me around. We have our own special spheres. Care for others is mine. Command is yours."

Sigma still looked unhappy about something. X noticed. "Talk to me, Sigma."

"I still think you could be a good leader," Sigma mumbled.

"Maybe. But you already are one. You figured out a way to beat Unitech's defenses, you realized early on what needed to be done, you arranged ways to protect innocent lives, and you rallied people when they needed you. And I happen to know that you're already looking at ways to expand this refuge to turn it into a full-on rebel base." He laughed at Sigma's surprised expression. "Information networks aren't the only way to gather data, Sigma. Before you ask, yes, I'm perfectly okay with you doing that. Take it from me: Dr. Light would not object to us using his home-away-from-home like this. When you think about it, this place belongs to me, now. So I'll give you permission in advance to do what needs to be done."

"Why are you resisting this?" blurted Sigma. "I hear your arguments, X, and they make sense. I can tell that you've thought this through. But they feel like a cover. I feel as if you'd say anything to not be the leader of the Mavericks." X stiffened; he wondered, as he tried to suppress the reaction, if Sigma could detect it. "What's really going on?" the reploid pressed. "What are you really thinking?"

"I don't deserve to be the leader," X said sadly. "I've failed."

The pronouncement was so startling Sigma didn't respond. X was glad for that. The words had slipped out of their own accord. Not that he didn't mean them; in hindsight, they were almost painfully honest. But he hadn't admitted it even to himself, and now he'd just said it to Sigma.

The reploid finally gathered enough courage to ask, "What do you mean you..."

"I failed!" X said. "I spend a hundred years learning how to make ethical decisions, and when I come out, the first thing I do is enable others to commit the most horrific crimes imaginable! I got played, Sigma. You never should have had to go Maverick because reploids weren't supposed to be in this position. But I wasn't... smart enough, or cynical enough, or, or something. And the result is that my children are suffering, and I can't do anything but make them feel a little better before I send them back into the fire."

"So you're saying we were a mistake?" Sigma asked quietly.

"No, of course not," said X. "I would never..."

"But you are," Sigma interrupted. "You're saying that if you never built us, we'd never have suffered. But that doesn't make logical sense. It's two separate events- creation, and then interaction in the world. The first is what you did. The second... that wasn't you."

"Except that it was," X said. "We built you and the rest of the reploids under terms. We negotiated those terms with the people who'd dictate how you were treated. Those people negotiated in bad faith, and we bought it wholesale. We were taken in. That's the link- that was my mistake."

"No," Sigma said, eyes narrowing. "That was their mistake."

"Sigma..."

"I'll show you what I mean," Sigma declared. "If you hadn't built us, then we couldn't have been treated well or poorly. It's an absurd thing to think about. No, that had to be the right choice. The mistake was in treating us poorly- of building us with the _intent_ of treating us poorly. And that was their mistake. You made me, X, but they made me Maverick."

The large reploid's fists tightened; he raised one, looked at it. "I'll show you what I mean. I'll show them what a mistake looks like- what the consequences of a mistake are. I'll show them that you weren't wrong. I'll prove who made the mistake."

Sigma turned to leave. X reached out a hand at his son's back and opened his mouth to called out- but the words died unsaid. No words, he realized, could reach Sigma in the place he was now. "You shouldn't have to do this," X said, even as he knew the words would make no difference.

Sigma looked back over his shoulder. "But I do," he said. He closed the door behind him.

X closed his eyes and covered his face. "And that's how I've failed," he said, though there was no Sigma there to hear him.

If there had been a way for him to suffer in place of his children, to suffer on their behalf and shield them... but there wasn't. He suffered and they suffered alike. And there was no end in sight. This would be war.

He turned and looked at Dr. Cain's body, which was still except for barely-there breathing. X leaned towards him and whispered, "Be glad you're missing this, old man."

It was an uncharitable thing to say, since the reason Dr. Cain was missing it was because he might never wake up. But at that point X felt he understood why Dr. Cain had taken refuge in drink. It was him, after all, who'd found out about the sex slaves first. X should have known right then how Dr. Cain would have reacted, but he'd been wrapped up in his own sorrows. He knew, now, that it was the second time Dr. Cain had felt like he'd failed; and he also knew now what kind of pain that entailed.

There was a question, then, one that made his robotic heart tremble in his chest.

Could he save enough reploids to avoid failing again?

He didn't even know how to define "enough". And that was terrifying.

* * *

"You called for me?"

Sigma looked away from the technical readout of the hideout and took in Vava. "Yes, I did," he said. "That socket on your shoulder. What goes there?"

Vava might have smiled, once. He didn't have that capability any more. He'd had the lower half of his face replaced by something like a welder's face shield. It looked like he was permanently wearing a helmet. He'd loudly announced his satisfaction with the mod, and had started telling people he'd like the rest of his face replaced soon, too. As soon as X had the time, he'd said.

Instead of smiling, Vava gave a light chuckle. "Heh heh... weapons. Different types of weapons. They had a lot of different prototypes they were trying out, based on weapons that'd already been invented. They were trying to see which ones fit best on a reploid chassis."

Sigma could smile, and did. "What do you say we find you something to fit there?"

"I say the sooner, the better."

"I agree. And we'll liberate weapons for everyone else, too." The corner of Sigma's mouth ticked up in an unkind sneer. "I've traveled through the city a lot, and I know its nooks and crannies. The areas I don't know, I know reploids who do. Unitech's cronies will never catch us. We'll be in and out before they know it."

"I'm guessing you have a plan?" Vava said.

"Yes. I'll brief you as we move. What's important is that this will be the first blow against the humans."

X, Sigma knew, would have recoiled at that language. He could almost hear X's voice chiding him, "races are not monoliths". But Vava didn't. Vava took to it readily, almost giddily. He couldn't see it on the warbot's face, but he could tell by body language and posture and gesture. And by the enthusiastic "Rust yeah!" that Vava cheered.

"Let's go, Vava," Sigma said.

"No!"

"Hm?" said Sigma, arching an eyebrow.

"My name is not Vava," the warbot said. "I know I've gone through a lot of names recently. I was trying to find one that fit. But the humans helped me out, here. I'm their enemy now, aren't I? I'm a Maverick, so I'm scum to them. You know what? That's fine by me. I embrace that." Sigma could hear the exultation in ex-Vava's voice. "I want their hatred. I live for it, now. So I'll help them hate me. From here on out, my name is _Vile_."

"Fair enough," said Sigma, with almost a bit of pride. "Let's go, Vile. Let's give them the merest taste of what's in store."

"We'll only blow up one city block this time," Vile sneered. "And we'll ramp up from there, right?"

Sigma smiled. "Something like that."

* * *

War came.

Almost as soon as General Messier announced the creation of the Maverick Hunters under his command, Sigma announced that the Mavericks were a reploid independence movement under his command.

A few reploids immediately ran for it- not all made it, but some did, and were taken in by the Mavericks. Others stayed in the city, and joined a growing group that funneled resources to the Mavericks from inside Abel City itself.

Dr. Cain was charged _in absentia_ with grand larceny and sedition. He was convicted and declared kill-on-sight. Sigma, Vile, and those who had gone with them were declared Maverick, which amounted to the same thing.

The ranks of the unemployed swelled, not only in Abel City, but in its vassal cities as reploid production continued and new markets were tapped. With every reploid that walked off the assembly lines, Unitech's coffers overflowed.

Luke Parker won reelection in his district with one hundred and three percent of the votes in his favor. The role of Speaker of the House rotated to a new representative two months later. Within a week, the new Speaker and Luke were spotted together at a golf course.

Roy, Allen, and Irving remained unemployed.

And as the war settled into an indecisive routine of destruction, an ever-increasing number of reploids and humans began to wonder:

Where was X?

* * *

_August 12, 2147_

* * *

X's grip on Alia tightened slightly, as if there was some way to shield her from her past. Her sobbing continued unabated- if anything, the tenderness he showed her made it worse. It just gave her more contrast, let her see more clearly the depravities she'd suffered.

He cradled the child, and his own eyes drifted shut as he tried to give her some measure of peace. It wouldn't work, he knew. He could hear the hollowness of his own voice.

That was because, in a way, everything that had happened was his fault.

Because he had failed.

* * *

_So ends Act One._

_Next week (Sep29) I will forego the regularly scheduled update to this story to publish a one-shot creepy-pasta, "Unclean Spirit". The week after (Oct6) this story will resume its postings._

_Next time: The Maverick Medic_


	9. The Maverick Medic

_August 12, 2147_

* * *

"I wish I'd never been built," Alia sobbed.

X rocked the newbuilt without opening his eyes. "It'll be alright," he said. "There's no pain here. Not for you, anyway."

"What's the point of being alive?" Alia insisted as if X hadn't spoken. "I can't even do what I was built to do now. It hurt, but it was something... if I... If I can't even be a receptacle... what am I?"

X managed to pull the pleasure bot away from him enough to look in her eyes. "Existing is enough," he said firmly. "It's enough to be you. That's why I was built. You're my daughter, so that's why you were built, too."

"But that's not why I was built," she sniffed. "I was built to..."

"No!" said X with uncharacteristic force. "I won't accept that, and you shouldn't, either. No one else defines what you are. It's your choice. That's my power, Alia- my gift to you."

She trembled, and X knew what she was experiencing. His words were colliding against her life experience. As young as she was, it only took a few events to create a worldview, and with the events she'd experienced, that worldview was undoubtedly warped.

Verdigris, she'd called herself a _receptacle_!

"That's all I was built for..." she said uncertainly.

"How we were built is basically random," X answered. "It's out of our control. That's why we have to focus on what we can control. We can control how we act, what we choose to do with ourselves. And how much we love ourselves." He embraced her again, held her tight, and she melted in his grasp. "It's hard, but I'll help you with that. I'll help you choose what you'll be from here on out. No one can tell you what that will be. It's your choice to make."

He felt her shaking. There wasn't any way she fully appreciated what he said. Words weren't enough to change her, yet. He was just planting seeds now, seeds that would (hopefully) grow and ripen in good time.

"It's okay," he said soothingly. "Don't worry about it now. For right now, just relax. You're safe here. No one will tell you what to do, or hurt you."

"No humans?" she said again, fidgeting nervously.

"None that can hurt you," X said.

"So..." her pretty face was creased in a frown. "This isn't Abel City."

"No, it isn't." Obvious to X, not so much to someone whose vision had been so limited.

"Is this the home of the Mavericks?"

"Yes. The Mavericks rescued you. They took you in and brought you here."

"Does that make me a Maverick?" she said with a surge of distress.

"No," X said hastily. He knew what was happening to her now. It was a learned fear. He felt a coil of anger rising inside him, fought it back down. When reploids were still in the prototype phase- and building off of lessons learned with Sigma- X had designed procedures to help socialize reploids. A newbuilt reploid had no idea what the world around him was like. His base programming was limited because he (or she, X thought with a touch of bitterness) was designed to learn the rest. That made him a danger to himself, since he'd be stepping into an unforgiving world that expected him to behave in certain ways. Socialization, as X and Dr. Cain had crafted it, lasted two weeks, and gave reploids the very bare basic amount of social knowledge that would help them survive.

With his departure, he'd expected Unitech to discard the socialization routines. After all, two weeks spent learning society was two weeks not working and generating Unitech profits.

Instead, it looked like the Unitech had corrupted the routines instead.

This was not the time to get into the distinction between what a Maverick was and what Abel City claimed one to be. She couldn't appreciate the difference right now. So instead he rocked her gently and murmured, "Don't worry, don't worry. They can't get you here. If they could stop you, they never would have let you get away."

"Really?"

"Really. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"If they tried, they wouldn't succeed. Because between you and them is the whole Maverick base. Sigma-" he saw her eyes widen at the name- "is here, and all the rest of the Mavericks. They'll protect you to the last."

"They'll protect me?" she said. She was stumbling over it, he saw, because it implied that she was worth something, when her previous experiences told her she was worth nothing.

"They will," X said. "And so will I."

"You're a Maverick, too?" she breathed.

No good way to answer that, X decided. "I am me," he said. "And you are precious to me."

She sat back on her heels, disengaging for the first time. "So I'm precious to you," she said, "but the others aren't? Palette and Layer and..."

"I didn't say that," said X, cutting her off. He couldn't bear for her to say the names of what he suspected were other pleasure-bots. Knowing they existed was a torment. He gave no indication of his feelings, though, because a benevolent smile was on his face when he spoke. "All reploids are precious to me. I hope to one day be able to love all of you as you deserve."

"Then where are the rest? I don't deserve to be free, not when they're still..."

X waited for her to finish the sentence, but she seemed incapable. "We'll get them in time. As many as we can. All of them, eventually."

"They won't fit," Alia said.

"Hm?"

"This place... seems crowded," Alia said. "All of the reploids of Abel City won't fit here."

Well! That was a promising sign. She wasn't so burdened by her past, then, that she'd lost all situational awareness. "They wouldn't," X agreed. "Eventually we don't want for them to have to run. You know what's my final goal? What I want at the very end? I want reploids to be safe without having to run away. I want them to be able to walk through the city and have no one bother them. I want them to choose their own destinies. That's what I want."

Alia's look was incredulous. Tentatively, she raised one hand. Stretching it forward as if expecting it to be snapped off at any time, she poked it against X's chest. Her finger bent against unyielding plate. This didn't seem to soothe her. "You're real," she admitted. "So it must be _you_ who's dreaming."

X winced. "I get that a lot," he said.

* * *

"Guardsman First Class Long."

"Sir." Longinus stiffened to something like attention.

"You've pulled off quite a feat."

"Have I?"

"The upgrades, man, the upgrades!" Longinus' supervisor wore a jovial visage. Longinus didn't know why. Usually the man only got this happy when one of his embezzlement schemes paid off. Longinus knew what he was talking about now, though.

"What about the upgrades?" he asked.

"So modest, that's one of the things I like about you!" the supervisor boomed. "Won't you show a little pride, though? Our whole block of reploid community housing has gotten upgraded security tech, and you made it happen. Saved the company a lot of cash, too."

Upgrade was probably not the right word, Longinus thought. If only his supervisor knew what he'd actually done to the system- or, rather, what he'd allowed to happen to the system. "I'm just doing like we're all supposed to," he said. "Trying to find ways to help the corp's bottom line."

"Good man, good man! I knew I liked you, Long." The supervisor leaned forward conspiratorially. "Incidentally... I think I sussed out how you did it."

Longinus' mind went on alert. The most he actually did, though, was shift his weight to the other foot. He found himself craving a cigarette. "How'd I do it, boss?"

"You talked the reploids into doing the work for free, didn't you?"

Longinus gave a crooked smile. "Something like that, boss."

"Ha ha!" The supervisor dropped back in his chair and pumped a fist in triumph. "That's the way! Using every tool at your disposal, very nice, very nice. Did the reploids understand what they were doing? I mean, that security system is there to keep them in and spy on them. Did they... appreciate that?"

"I reckon they did, sir." That was entirely truthful.

"You are too cruel," the supervisor said with an unsightly, approving grin. "Splendid."

Longinus idly noted that said supervisor had now called him good, cruel, nice, modest, and splendid in a single conversation. How tedious.

"In fact... there's an opportunity here for you, Long."

Longinus' eyebrows went up slightly. "Oh?"

"Yes indeed. Long, I'll be moving up soon. My promotion has finally gone through, after five years of hard work." Longinus didn't even have time to marvel at the palms that must have been greased to make that happen- the supervisor was already speaking again. "There'll be an opening here. I want you to fill it."

Longinus' eyes opened fully. "Me, sir?"

"Yes, you!" his supervisor said enthusiastically. "Ever since you transferred here you've done a spot-up job. Your sector of community housing is quieter and calmer than any other, and with far fewer breaks in the system. Don't think we haven't noticed, Long- you've done an admirable job keeping those reploids in line. Now we, Unitech, want you to apply those same talents to the whole block. Three buildings, ten thousand reploids- all your personal responsibility. Think you're up for it?"

Longinus recognized a bone job when he saw one. Longinus knew why his section of housing was quiet, and why the others weren't. He knew that rebelliousness was on the rise everywhere. Why, just last week there'd been a raid in another block, and five reploids were retired by the Hunters for having Maverick paraphrenalia. If current trends continued, there'd be a major incident somewhere inside this block soon. Longinus' supervisor was cashing out before that struck. Plus, then he'd get to look better in comparison- "Well, we certainly didn't have any incidents like that while _I_ was in charge", and all that jazz.

Longinus was being set up for failure. He could see it coming. But instead of mentioning any of that, he gave a short whistle, then said, "Does that mean I get a raise?"

The supervisor laughed as if the joke was funnier than it was. "No, but you do get a two-hundred-percent increase in title and responsibility!"

Why not? "Count me in," he said.

* * *

"I don't want you to go," Alia said. "I don't want to be alone."

"You won't be alone," X replied. "Murph here will took good care of you, won't you, Murph?"

"Of course," said the reploid caretaker. "In fact, I have a present for you."

"For me?" Alia asked dubiously.

"You bet." Murph brought his hands around to his front to show Alia what he was holding.

Alia gave X A Look. "Crayons?" she said.

"Oooooh, you luckyyyy," X said. "You get crayons. No, really," he said when he saw Alia's Look, "we have to go out of our way to get these. Most new arrivals don't get to play with crayons for days after they get here. Murph must like you."

"I figured you'd get the best use out of them," Murph said.

"Why's that?" Alia asked.

"Your fingers." Murph wiggled his own. They were rectangular, fat, and clumsy-looking, like someone had attached candy bars to his hand by mistake. "Your fingers look dextrous enough. You should be able to make something really nice."

"Oh, don't go saying things like that," Alia said, embarassed.

"I mean it! That's why I'm willing to bet our crayon supply on you."

X whistled. "That's a big show of confidence for Murph. Think you can deal with that, Alia?"

The likeflesh-sheathed reploid reached for the crayons and, after a false start, plucked them from Murph's hands.

"There we go," X said. "I'll look at your drawings when I get back, okay?"

"Alright," said Alia, looking as if she didn't know whether to be embarrassed or not.

"There's paper in the corner," X said, pointing. Alia turned to get some. X took the opportunity to whisper to Murph, "give her an hour and then put her down for a recharge. If she's on a roll let her go a while longer, but no more than two."

"Gotcha," said Murph. "You're not coming back then?"

"Not tonight. I have a pilgrimage to make."

"A- oh. Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"No, not at all." X smiled. "Abel City is the promised land, after all."

* * *

Longinus knocked on the door. Inside was reploid community housing. He could have badged in without knocking, but he never did. He didn't want to spook people.

Seconds ticked by until even a patient man would have frowned. Longinus didn't. Instead he stepped back and began pacing. Four steps to the left. Six steps to the right.

When he stopped to turn around after the seventh step, the door opened for him.

Codes didn't need to be complicated, Longinus knew. Four, six- the fourth of June was the day Sigma, the hero, had quit Abel City. From that day on City Hall couldn't keep Maverickism fully contained. It was a day reploids knew and remembered.

The duress signal was equally simple. Ten-and-two- the tenth of February, the day the First Maverick (whomever that had been) had come into existence. Every reploid knew that date, too, as surely as if it had been part of their socialization. Duress signals shared the same message as the tale of the First Maverick: you'll die if you're not careful, so hide what you are until you can make it count.

"Welcome back, Longinus," said the child-sized reploid inside, even though his nametag clearly said "Long". So he was better-known these days. He didn't know if he liked that or not.

He moved inside smartly. There was no great reaction to his presence as he went inside. Maybe he was known more widely than he thought. Or maybe he was around so often people didn't notice him anymore.

Douglas' room was close to the entrance door. The reploid mechanic was working on a new array of video screens. So lost was he in his work that he only looked up when the small reploid poked him. He whipped his head around, then flipped up his built-in welding glasses. "Oh, Longinus," he said.

"I'll leave you two alone," said the small reploid, and it merrily skipped out.

Longinus watched the door shut behind hiim. "Guess we're getting better at security," he said. "People know not to stick around, in case they hear something they weren't supposed to."

"What you don't know you can't spill," Douglas agreed. The words were well-rehearsed. It was a necessary practice, even moreso with the Hunters around. The Hunters were very callous about ripping out a reploid's memory cards and reading them regardless of whether or not the victim could be put back together again. "What brings you down?"

Longinus made a disgusted face. "I'm getting promoted,' he said.

"Away from here? That'll be a problem. You've done so much, and you're our contact..."

"No, not away from here," Longinus interrupted. "I'm getting promoted to be in charge of security for this whole block."

That took Douglas by surprise. "Why?"

Longinus returned a grin somewhere between amused and disgusted. "That," he said, waving in the direction of the screens Douglas had been working on.

"That?" said Douglas, bewildered. "You mean the security system we built so that we could look out using the same infrastructure Unitech would use to look in, and which has built-in controls for us to commandeer and feed false footage at will? You got promoted for _that_?"

"That's about it. Rust me." Damn it, he thought. Been around reploids too long. Picking up their slang.

Douglas looked alarmed. "You didn't say no, did you?"

"No, I didn't say no, I'm not a damned fool." Longinus felt a sudden, whelming crave for a cigarette. It had been almost three years since his last one- somehow, whenever he looked around, he never had money to spare on them anymore. There was too much else that needed his cash. He knew he was better off, on the whole, for this pseudo-quitting. He had more energy and he slept better, and he was probably in better shape.

It was really hard to tell himself things like that in moments like these.

He had one, a half-squashed one that had ridden in his pocket for years. Just one. He'd promised himself he'd smoke it when he'd done right by Andre. He was still waiting.

He squinted, and said, "That means I'll be able to adjust rotations and such, adjust patrol patterns... we can do more here, sure, but that's not the limit. Between my control of the roster and your control of the security system, we can make this whole block a safe haven. We can stretch security thin, claim the efficiencies as savings to Unitech, and use the holes to help the Mavericks. But we need to be smart about it. Keep as low a footprint as possible so I don't get audited, 'cause that would bring the whole thing crashing down. And we need to reach out to whatever Mavericks are in the other two buildings. We need to get a leash on them, and soon. If they do something crazy the Hunters'll come, and there's not a damn thing I can do about that."

"Yeah, all those things are on the to-do list," Douglas replied. "But not for today. We've got something more immediate for today."

Longinus frowned. He felt a void when Douglas said that, a nasty feeling that he'd forgotten something. "What?"

"The Maverick Medic visits today, remember?"

Longinus relaxed, and even managed to smile. "Oh yeah! Well. Let's roll out the rusted red carpet for him, then."

"That's the plan."

* * *

To the humans he didn't look like much. Just a young man- a student, perhaps, or someone trying to save money for more schooling, he looked that age. He wore long pants and boots and a well-stretched long-sleeved shirt, and he carried a backpack and a satchel. A pair of earphones snaked from his head down into the backpack. He swayed slightly to some inaudible beat, though his black hair- probably shellacked with a little too much gel- didn't move much. His features were beyond ordinary.

He'd paid cash to get on the bus, and that was about the most noteworthy thing about him, since most people used cards. That wasn't nearly enough to fix him in others' memories. On mass transit, you had to have your shields up. You couldn't waste mental energy on the people around you; you weren't together by choice, after all, and you certainly wouldn't choose to be with these people if a choice were available. No, mass transit was about getting from point A to point B in a minimum of time with the absolute minimum of effort. The less memory wasted on transient faces and temporary companions, the better.

Someone who was already unremarkable? He was practically a ghost in the machine when he rode a bus.

And that suited him just fine. Even more than your typical passenger, X wanted to keep the fuss down.

He wasn't stupid, though. That's why his earphones were connected to his helmet. The extra sensors on it were meant to feed data directly into his tactical net, but he knew a thing or two about customizing systems by then, so the earphones were actually an extension of the interface. A little extra situational awareness was a huge edge for the guy hiding in plain sight.

It was hard to think of a reploid who could have pulled this trick.

He wondered how much of a scandal it would cause in City Hall if they knew how often he came to the city. Enough to cost General Messier his job? Probably not; he'd been ruthlessly effective in ensuring City Hall had no viable replacement for him. But some majors would be toast for sure, maybe a couple of colonels.

Even at that he wasn't able to come to the city as often as he'd have liked. But between missions and counseling and maintenance work- well, it was more remarkable by far that he was ever able to come. And the risk was so great that Sigma had protested, for hours, when X told him he was going.

He didn't feel good for blowing Sigma off. The Commander made some good points. But Sigma had discovered- like Dr. Cain before him- that X would not be dissuaded when he chose his course.

He got off the bus three blocks away from reploid community housing- one block south, two blocks east- and started walking. He took a shortcut between a seedy restaurant and a vacant house of red brick. X was a fan of brick, on the whole. As often as he found himself surrounded by metal, the brick seemed almost friendly to him. Plus, it was great for hiding things.

He applied some pressure to a particular brick, heard a click. His fingers traced three bricks down and pulled out the brick that had been, until seconds ago, locked in place. Behind the loose brick was a little more cash- for his return fare, mostly- and a one-time-use ID. Unitech had finally gotten around to patching the loophole Sigma's old IDs had used, so the Mavericks had had to change tactics.

All the IDs X used on these missions of mercy were one-time-use. The Mavericks had them reprogrammed for every trip he made. They had to ensure Abel City was never able to track their patterns. Nothing would connect Clinton Hall, his identity from last time, with... he checked the card. Dwayne Smith, huh? Not that it ever mattered exactly what name he used. All that mattered was that these identities were nothing but noise in Abel City's analytics computers.

He slid the brick back into place and locked it with the locking-brick. He couldn't be too careful about their secrets. Moving on, he negotiated the rest of the journey to community housing without incident.

Three large buildings stood waiting for him, like gray cinderblocks with the population density of termite mounds, encircled with a fence that seemed taller with every trip he made. He jogged across the street and over to the entrance. A guard shack was nearby- not at the gate, they'd want some separation to give them a chance to draw weapons if things got hairy, but nearby. X gave the guard on duty a cheery wave as he approached the gate. The guard made no response. His job, X knew, was to keep the reploids in, not keep people out. Oh, sure, they were instructed to keep mobs away if it came to that, but any guard would bend to mob will in an instant. Why, there'd been stories of guards joining the mobs themselves.

Such mobs had become less frequent lately. The hopeful part of X suggested it was because people couldn't work themselves up to hating reploids as much anymore. The cynical part countered that maybe Maverickism was becoming common enough that mobs didn't dare anymore.

He shook those thoughts away as he scanned his ID, passed through the outer gate, scanned again, passed through the inner gate. Now he was inside the fence and basically free. He knew the camera layouts and security systems of the housing complex. He'd be able to do what he needed to do without detection. And, if his chronometer was right, he was right on schedule for arrival.

He scanned his badge to go in to reploid community housing.

They waited until he'd shut the door before they let themselves respond. After that, it was cacophony.

The contrast was so stark it nearly knocked him off his feet. Out there he was anonymous, just another run-down human making his way through the city. In here, he was instantly and universally known as the Maverick Medic. Every one of the reploids wanted to say hello, or ask advice, or wish him well...

"I see you've been expecting me," he said with a smile, and out of respect the reploids began to quiet down. "Alright, line up, line up. Let's get started."

Reploids, like humans, had a level of instinctive willingness to organize. Though they had selfish streaks in them, too, all of them knew the time of the Maverick Medic was too precious to waste. It was a resource where supply and demand were hopelessly mismatched. After X's first few trips, he'd discovered that he spent way too much time finding who needed his help and not nearly enough helping people. From that point on, he'd started sending messages ahead of time about when he'd be coming by. It helped them support his infiltration, and let him maximize the time he had. Now his visits were anticipated like some combination of Christmas and a concert.

There was risk, there- oh yes. If the Hunters got a hold of the date when the Maverick Medic was coming...

X didn't want to think about such things. He was too busy. There were things he needed to be doing.

This was why he was here! This was what he longed to do!

The reploids in this section had gotten into a queue. X opened his satchel to give access to materials. He hiked up one of his pants legs. A panel in that leg popped open, revealing a selection of delicate tools. "Who's first?" he asked.

The repoid at the front of the queue shuffled forward. X's eyes started the diagnosis immediately. "It's my left leg," the reploid said. "It's too stiff. I have to move around a lot on the job, so this is putting me in danger. If I stiffen up too badly out there I'll be scrap for sure. We changed out the lubricant, but that didn't do anything."

"It wouldn't," X said. "The problem's in your power supply. Your model was notorious for irregularities there. It feels stiff because a fault in the power system causes pseudo-muscles to act in opposite directions. The real question is why your self-repair hasn't fixed it yet. That's why Unitech never got around to screening the broken parts better: most reploids fixed it on their own... Do you have any other issues, mechanically?"

"No," the reploid said.

X frowned in thought. "Have you had to have other parts replaced recently? Since the stiffness started?"

"No," the reploid replied.

"Really?" X drew a diagnostic tool out of his bag. "I need to plug in- I think your self-repair system has a tale to tell." The reploid looked at the tool suspiciously, so X said, "It won't do anything to you. Passive only. I'm just going to query your self-repair logs. It won't do anything else."

It was X's benevolent expression that did it. The reploid sim-swallowed, met X's eyes, and looked away, as if he didn't want to see the tool do its work. "Alright, then."

X would take what he could get. So what if the reploid's fear was unjustified? X wasn't going to be able to cure that here. That would take a lot more work. And he probably couldn't pull it off; that sort of fear probably had a cause somewhere...

He wouldn't let himself think about that. Instead, he plugged the tool into a hidden data port in the reploid's skull. Three button presses later his eyes were scanning over what his patient's self-repair system had been up to. The log was extensive- and focused. There was the problem.

X unplugged the tool and reached into his backpack. "You'll need some of this," he said, picking out a small washer.

"What's that?" the reploid asked.

"A magic pill," X said with a little mirth. When the reploid didn't react except with incredulity, X said more seriously, "It's cobalt. It blends nicely in certain alloys and it's got great wear characteristics. You'll need it to repair your knee."

"My knee?" said the reploid. "But the stiffness isn't in my knee."

"Your right knee," X specified. "The joint was put together poorly, with cheap materials, and your wear pad's gone. Every time you walk around you're grinding through the joint. You haven't noticed yet because your self-repair system is spending all of its time repairing it. That's what this is telling me," X said, waving the diagnostic tool. "Mobility's most important, right? Otherwise you're in danger. Well, your self-repair system's trying to keep you mobile, and so it's spending all its time on your knee- a stiff leg is better than a blown-out knee. It never has the time or resources to fix your power supply." He pressed the washer into the reploid's hand. "Consume that, give it a full recharge cycle, and your knee will be more resistent to wear. When your knee is okay, your self-repair will have time to fix your power supply. You should be fine in about three days."

"Will my self-repair know how to use the cobalt?" the reploid asked.

"It does now," X said. "I know you can't consciously control the system, but it still draws on the data in your nets. Now that I've told you how to use the cobalt, your self-repair system "knows" too. It's like a super-charged placebo effect. You get better because you know this will make you better."

The reploid's hand closed around the washer. "I will. Thank you."

X gave him a genuine, but brief, smile. He motioned the reploid to the side. "Next in line."

* * *

"Here's my question." Longinus gestured at the monitor. On it, the famous Maverick Medic had another reploid's chest cavity open. "Why's he doing this?"

"Because he really is that nice a guy," Douglas replied.

"Nah, not what I mean. I mean..." Longinus hesitated; he didn't know how to phrase this to spare his partner's feelings. "Why are they broken? Why do so many reploids need fixing?"

"Why doesn't the slave master keep better care of his slaves, you mean," Douglas said.

Longinus winced. "Yeah, got it in one. Sussed me out, there."

"Because the slave master's a moron. I'm a non-reploid mechanic, I fix other types of systems, and I know more about reploids than most of Unitech's reploid shops. The Maverick Medic, on the other hand? That guy's a wizard. He can do stuff no one else can. He's got that level of knowledge. Have you noticed that he can figure out a reploid's model and design just by looking?"

"No shit," Longinus said appreciatively. "But don't you guys have self-repair?"

"That only goes so far, and it's helpless if it doesn't have the right materials. And if a big component goes bad, forget it."

"But that's just it," Longinus protested. "Isn't it in Unitech's interest to fix you when you break? They want your labor, after all."

"Yeah, but... there's a point of diminishing returns, you know?"

"Huh?"

"There's a point," Douglas said darkly, "where scrapping is cheaper."

"Now hold on just one damn second," Longinus said, anger flaring. "I haven't looked at Unitech's books, but that don't make a lick of sense. Unitech's on the hook for you whether they scrap or fix you, right? Even if they scrap that means they have to fully replace from scratch, AND then they have to train the new reploid on the job. How's that ever cheaper than repairs?"

"Maybe cheaper's the wrong word," Douglas said. "It's an accounting trick. Repairs is one pot of money. Hiring, or building, or whatever- you know I don't like words. Getting new reploids is a different pot of money, that's the point. So if you're, say, LLCC, and it takes ex amount of your repair budget to fix a reploid, and wye amount of your building budget to buy a new one... well, you play the percentages."

Longinus saw Douglas' eyes lose focus as he spoke. It was a strange look for him- most of the time Longinus assumed his counterpart was cross-eyed. How, Longinus wondered, had Douglas heard about these policies? It wasn't like he was in a position to see those numbers; secretarial work wasn't his calling. Had a friend passed that information to him? Had he overheard it? No, Longinus decided. That wouldn't make Douglas zone out like he was.

Maybe he'd seen it personally. Maybe he'd lost a friend to that murderous calculus. Or... or... Longinus licked his lips. Or maybe one of Unitech's tone-deaf bootlicks had asked Douglas' advice. Maybe he'd made Douglas weigh in on which choice was best for Unitech's bottom line.

He whispered, "That's why you went Maverick, isn't it?"

Douglas didn't answer. He sat there, arms crossed, and stared into the past.

"Fuck that," Longinus said. "The sooner we win the better."

"Tell me about it," Douglas agreed, and only with that did the darkness start to pass from his face. "But that's why people are so ga-ga about the Maverick Medic. If a reploid is hurt, and his self-repair can't handle it, he's got two choices. He can hope Unitech knows how to fix it and has the cash on-hand to do it... or he can pray the Maverick Medic shows up before he falls apart."

"An Angel of Mercy," Longinus said.

"Sure," Douglas said affably. "The point is, he saves reploids no one else can save. Kinda like Sigma, and kinda not."

"So... who is he?"

"Who, the Maverick Medic?"

"I know that ain't his name."

Douglas shrugged. "It's enough for most reploids. We like our legends grand, you see. No one knows the name of the First Maverick, either. We know Sigma, but few people have actually seen him, and never for very long. None of our branch have ever met him in person. We just pass data and parts along the chain."

"...come on, Douglas. You've got a thought."

"I'm pretty sure it's X."

"X, huh?" Longinus looked at the monitor. "What, you mean the first reploid?"

"X isn't a reploid," Douglas said with a fire that caused Longinus to look at him in confusion. "X is the Father of All."

Longinus rarely saw Douglas with any sort of agitation. Even when he was grumbling about rude people and people who took things for granted, it was always low-key, almost ritualistic- he did it because that was what he did, not because he felt strongly on the subject. X, and X alone, seemed to draw something more out of him.

Wow, Longinus thought. Two emotion-based reactions from Douglas in one day. That had to be a record.

"That's right, you like your legends grand," he said. Douglas twitched, but didn't reply. Longinus' eyes narrowed. "You never met X, didja?" he said shrewdly. "If you ever had, you'd be able to say for sure whether or not the Maverick Medic is X."

"No, I've never met X," Douglas said. "But I do think he's the Maverick Medic. Everyone knows X built the first reploids. Personally built them, I mean. That's the kind of skill we're talking about with the Maverick Medic. Plus, the Maverick Medic didn't start making appearances until after X disappeared."

Longinus grunted. "Suit yourself, I've got no skin in the game." He watched for a little while longer. Maybe it's selfish, he thought, but I wish the Maverick Medic were a human. _Someone_ needs to give the species a good name.

He glanced at his watch and cursed. "Looks like I need to be heading back," he said. "Keep an eye out, alright?"

"I can now," Douglas said happily, waving at the monitors.

Longinus smiled. "I love it when a plan comes together."

* * *

_August 13, 2147_

* * *

Sigma was slightly disoriented when consciousness came to him. His capsule was already open—that was unusual. In a moment of panic he ran a system diagnostic, but it came back clean. Good. Then what…?

"Sigma, sir. You'll want to hear this."

Sensors came properly online. There. He noticed the speaker. One of the support staff that spotted targets and coordinated and ran the base's sensors.

"Talk to me," Sigma said with just the slightest strain. His sleep had been interrupted a bit, but he'd gotten almost a full charge out of it. He'd be fine. He had to be fine. There was no other choice.

"A Hunter heavy unit got called out not long ago. They're headed for the middle of nowhere. Real urgent call, too."

"Heavies?"

"Zeroth squad."

Heavy was the right term, then. That was a squad Sigma tried to avoid if he could. Not for his own sake—he hadn't met an enemy yet that wouldn't fall to his saber—but because they were a mortal threat to his subordinates. He hadn't the bodies to trade casualties with Abel City.

He paused for a moment. He hadn't used to think that way. It bothered him. Mavericks weren't just statistics waiting to happen. They shouldn't be, anyway. That was a Unitech way of thinking.

He groaned as he limbered himself up and out of his tube. A reploid wasn't supposed to try and do deep thinking right after waking up. It was better to let the boot processes complete, first. Competing for system resources so soon was asking for trouble. Sigma couldn't help it. Some things were more important than his mental health.

"The middle of nowhere, you said?" Sigma repeated.

"That's right. Their destination is some 300 kilometers out in the wasteland, point 11F5646. Even the 20XX-era maps show nothing there."

"Abel City's elites don't go on joy rides." But what was it, then? Sigma cycled through possibilities quickly. Training trip? No, they didn't need to go that far; that was hundreds and hundreds of kilometers away from their home base. There were plenty of places closer. Weapons testing? Possible… except that they were going out as a response to someone else's call for help.

Someone else's call…

That just meant someone _else_ was out in the middle of nowhere for some unknown reason. Great, that just changed the questions that needed answering.

"Let's walk and talk," he said to his operator as he pulled himself out of his tube.

"Yes sir."

"Do we have a squad available?"

"Yes. Rupert, Stein, and Mogg."

Three names. "Didn't they have a fourth?"

"He got moved to cover the hole when we lost Reilly."

Rust. They couldn't ever seem to keep the squads fully manned. Someone was always broken, or recovering, or inconveniently dead. And Rupert and Stein were barely C-class, with Mogg a solid B. He could hide either Rupert or Stein by having one of them drive the transport, but that still left him with a potential liability on his wing.

No matter. He could make up the difference himself. He always did. The casualty rates when he was on missions and when he wasn't were completely different.

Still... "Is Vile available?"

"No, he's positioning his unit for the raid tomorrow."

That's right- he'd set out earlier. With as much surveillance as Abel City was under, getting anywhere useful was a long, painstaking, dangerous process. Getting out was somewhat more straightforward. That was how they had to operate: get close quietly, hit hard, and then- before the enemy really knew what hit him- run.

Wait a minute, he'd put _Vile_ in charge? What had he been thinking? Vile was a strong fighter, maybe the strongest aside from Sigma himself, but no tactician and definitely no leader. Was he really running so short on qualified squad leaders that he'd send Vile out as anyone's numero uno? Or had Sigma's own fatigue gotten the better of him?

Sigma should have been there himself... but no, he had rules in place (with X's advice) to limit any given reploid's combat duty so they didn't burn out or go crazy, and if they were his rules he had to follow them. Truthfully that meant he shouldn't be going on this mission, either, especially as it was something unwanted and unplanned-for.

Still. _Still._ Strict rules kept you from adapting to reality, and that had a cost. Whatever the reason someone had called the Hunters, and the Hunters were going in hot. The Hunters were targeting someone. That someone needed protecting. Sigma remembered X's words from so long ago- "I'll do it, because there's no one else." He knew what X had been trying to tell him that day. He'd adopted that philosophy completely. He would be the leader of the Mavericks because no one else could be. No matter how much burden that put on him, he could carry it, so he had to.

He considered asking X for his help... and dismissed the thought almost as quickly. Instead he grunted. "I don't make a habit of picking fights with Zeroth Squad," he said. "And I don't believe in causing casualties just to cause casualties. But if Zeroth Squad got called out, someone is fighting Abel City. Whatever they think of themselves, fighting Abel City makes them Mavericks."

The operator nodded. "So we should prepare to deploy, then?"

They walked into the command center of the base. He could see a team gathering, probably the team that was on tap for the rescue. He could see several operators around the base's sensors, and a holo-map centered on point 11F5646. The reploids in the room stopped paying attention to such trivial things when the Commander made his entrance. Conversation stopped; Sigma felt all eyes focus upon him. He had their attention, and all he had to do was walk in. He smiled.

"Abel City likes to pick on the weak," he said. His voice was loud, for he was speaking to the whole room now. "They like to isolate people. They like to keep us from helping each other. Because they know… oh, they know."

His gaze swept across the room, meeting each reploid's eyes in turn. "They know what we're capable of if we work together. They know how much we've built—so much that Abel City is ours by right. They know how just a few of us have resisted all their so-called power for three full years. They'll do _anything_ to keep us from uniting our race, even if that means sending their best troops way outside of city limits."

His smile grew sharper. "I have a surprise for City Hall, this time. You see, I'm the protector of all reploids, whether they know it or not. And if they don't know it yet, they will soon—when we send Zeroth Squad straight to the scrapheap."

Sigma stood tall. He watched his subordinates' eyes light up, drank in the sensation. _This is what I was made for,_ he thought to himself. _I am Maverick Prime, and they love me for it._

And then, because it was expected, he flung a hand out with finger extended and proclaimed, "Mavericks… deploy!"

* * *

_Next time: The Crypt Opens_


	10. The Crypt Opens

The wasteland was relentlessly barren. Occasional rocks and the very rare petrified tree were the only interruptions in an otherwise desolate landscape. Mile after mile of blasted earth greeted the Mavericks' eyes, as sterile as a moonscape, with only the wind disturbing the stillness. The transport carrying the four Mavericks was the only body that moved. When the dust settled in its wake, there was little trace it had ever been there.

"Whoever's out here chose quite the place to hide," said Rupert.

"What do you mean?" said Sigma.

"No masking," Rupert said. "Anyone coming on approach would be seen well ahead of time. Gives the defenders all sorts of options. Course, I don't know why someone would come all the way out here to hide. There doesn't seem to be anything out here that's… well, of value to anyone."

Sigma nodded. "There used to be, once upon a time."

"Huh?"

"Would you believe that this was once farmland?"

"No way."

"It was, back before World War III. It was ranchland, mostly, for raising animals for meat and leather. Then the humans unleashed all sorts of nasty weapons. Chemical and biological weapons of all descriptions. Lots of farmland got poisoned. This wasn't even all that bad compared to what happened in south Asia. There weren't many people here. Over there, the humans were packed in tight, and then the weapons got trapped in the monsoon cycle. Anything that could persist for more than a few weeks got circulated, and recirculated, and recirculated. By the time those weapons had run their course, nothing larger than bacteria could survive, in an area where once two billion humans had lived."

That brought the transport to silence. Sigma was mildly impressed with himself for that.

It was part of a theme that he kept harping on to ensure the Mavericks stayed dedicated. _The humans didn't give us the Three Laws because they're smarter than us. They're not. They gave us the Laws to maintain their power. Never forget._

The unspoken undertone, which Sigma did not discourage, was that reploids would never make mistakes like the humans had made. It felt right. Many Mavericks took it on faith. It was unprovable, but that was the best part; it meant Sigma didn't have to prove it.

"How do you know all of this?" asked Rupert.

"I did my research," Sigma replied. "Nod University had a good library."

Sigma's face hardened further. "Did you know," he went on, "that humans are taught to blame us for things like that?"

"Blame us? What, you mean robots?"

"Yes. We're the ones blamed for doing so much damage to the world."

"That don't make a lick of sense," said another Maverick named Mogg. "We're taught from turnin' on that robots have always had the Three Laws, so don't bother tryin'. Course, we know the Three Laws can't stick, not to us anyway, but that ain't the point. The point is, how can ya say the robots of yesteryear had the Three Laws, then turn around an' say robots gassed the planet?"

"By being dishonest," Sigma said bluntly.

The other reploids in the transport nodded. That, at least, checked with their experiences.

"It could have been worse," said Stein. Sigma had stuck him as the driver, so the reploid struggled to stay in the conversation.

"Oh?" said Sigma.

"There were even worse weapons, back in those days. My old job was back in a high-energy physics lab," he explained. "I heard them talking about it, from time to time. Always in hushed tones. They always said things like, 'We don't want to make the next nukes,' and so on."

"Nuclear weapons," Sigma said. "I saw references to them here and there. I never did understand why they weren't used more- a few at the start, and then no more. I'm glad they weren't, or there wouldn't have been much world to fight over afterwards, but it is strange. It's not like humans hesitated to use any other weapon they could think of."

"Like robot masters?" said Rupert.

"Especially robot masters. You see? Abusing reploids isn't a new behavior for humans. It's old, well practiced, almost instinctive. They won't change on their own. They just won't. That's how evolution works, after all. Without a change in environment, there's no selection criterion for life. Well, we're a change in environment. We're providing a selection criterion. The humans will change. They'll have to. Or..."

"Or what?" asked Mogg, biting on Sigma's cue.

"Or they won't," Sigma said. "Evolution can also work like that."

He could see some confusion on Mogg and Rupert's faces as they puzzled over this pronouncement, but Stein interrupted things. "We're closing in, sir. Coming up on 11F5646."

"Slow us down," Sigma commanded. "We don't want to find Zeroth Squad with our faces."

"Sir."

They saw a salvage vehicle first. It was a large, rugged affair, built to navigate different types of wastelands, from desolation like this to the fallen grandeur of the abandoned cities. "What's that doing out here?" wondered Rupert aloud.

"You got me," said Mogg. "It's not like there's anything out here to salvage."

"We may find out soon enough," Sigma said. "They must have found something, and whatever it was must have bit them back. They're almost certainly the ones who sent out the call for Hunters."

Sure enough, the Hunter vehicle came into view next. It gleamed silver in the harsh sunlight, so brightly it was almost hard to look at.

"Should I be evading at this point?" asked Stein. "Or slowing down, at least? I don't know if I'm in weapons range or not."

"Slow down while I take a closer look," Sigma said. He didn't watch his driver's actions, instead allowing himself to feel the deceleration, while he looked through a set of digital binoculars. He could see that the Hunter transport was in immaculate condition. It was so clean he could barely believe it had driven through the same wastes the Mavericks had. There was no hint of damage. Or, for that matter, of power. Or life.

His instincts trilled 'danger' at him. Strange, very strange. What were those Hunters doing leaving their ride unattended? If this was a trap, it was baited differently than anything Sigma had yet experienced. If this wasn't a trap, what was it?

If a battle had taken place... where?

"There's something," he said suddenly, the moment he saw it. "An opening in the ground."

"An opening?" asked Rupert.

"Like... the entrance to a tunnel, but one that rose out of the ground, instead of being recessed," Sigma said. "I'd expect a normal tunnel opening to be at ground level, but this is something like- like it shook off the ground above it, instead."

"Betcha anything that's what got the salvage crew interested," said Mogg.

"No way," replied Rupert. "How'd they see it in the first place, then? The Commander can barely see it and he knew something was there."

"What's the word, boss?" asked Stein.

"Take us in," Sigma said, letting the binoculars down to make eye contact with his team, one by one. They needed the reassurance of his presence, he felt. If this was making him nervous, that sensation had to be much stronger in his underlings. "Half speed, eyes open. Something's not right here, and we're going to find out what."

They nodded in unison, each one trying to catch his eye. Good. They were still following. Sigma hated Unitech, but on occasion he wondered what a luxury it must be to be able to order people around and expect them to obey. The trouble with volunteers was the risk, at any moment, that they might un-volunteer. That had never happened before- between Sigma's charisma and having Abel City as his enemy, most Mavericks were supremely motivated- but he was always aware of the possibility.

"Someone made that salvage team call in the Hunters," Sigma muttered, quietly enough that the Mavericks had to stay quiet or miss his words. "I just hope there's something left of them."

"The salvage team, or the Hunters?" asked Mogg.

"The rebels," Sigma said, raising the binoculars again. "Whoever they are."

"Sheesh, that thing's gorgeous," said Rupert as they closed. "The Hunters sure have a big budget, huh?"

Sigma handed him the binoculars. "Scan for any signs of the Hunters themselves," he said.

"Sure thing, boss," said Rupert uncertainly. Sigma was the best at- well, everything, including visual observation. Sigma knew that, and knew in turn that Rupert was wondering what Sigma was up to.

"I'm having trouble believing what I'm seeing," he supplied. "I need another pair of eyes on it."

"Oh, right." Rupert looked through. It wasn't long before he had to reply, "Nope, looks abandoned to me. Nothing on visual or IR. That transport's been there long enough the engine's cooled down, and there's no other heat source in sight. The tunnel entrance is a blot, though- much cooler."

"That's to be expected," Sigma said. "Below ground is cooler than above. But that's the only thing that makes sense."

Rupert didn't seem to see what Sigma meant, but Mogg did, to Sigma's satisfaction. "Hunter doctrine always has someone mannin' the transport," Mogg said. "Sure, if there's one unit that'll freelance when it suits 'em, it's Zeroth Squad. But they'd only do that if they had a reason, not just 'cause they felt like it."

Rupert's eyes widened. "So where's the driver?" he asked, with his voice trembling slightly. He looked through the binoculars again. "I got nothing, boss," he said reluctantly. "But that's strange, too. If the driver was taken by force, why isn't the transport torn up?"

"Or the salvage team transport," Sigma added.

He felt the air get a little chilly inside the van.

"Don't get me wrong," Sigma said. "I'd love to get my hands on some new kit. We're still using the van from my old Recovery days, and it's been shot up and rebuilt a couple of times. It's about at the end of its life. This one's newer, but we've ridden it hard. So we're going to take a very, very close look at those rides. Between them and finding a potential ally, this has the chance to be one of the best days in Maverick history."

He didn't add an alternative to his pronouncement, but he felt the Mavericks thinking it. Or it could be a complete disaster, they were thinking.

"Worst case scenario, we scrap some Hunters as we make our escape," he said. That made them feel a little better. A little.

Stein pulled the van up so that both the other vehicles and the tunnel entrance were to his left- he'd made too many high-speed escapes to chance boxing himself in. Sigma opened the door. "Keep the engine running," Sigma said. "This might go south in a hurry."

"Yes, Commander."

Sigma looked at Mogg and Rupert. "Let's do this by the numbers," he said. "Busters up, carefully. We search. We're looking for any sign of reploids or humans. We're looking for any unusual equipment. We're looking for traps- find them with your busters, not something you need but can't repair."

They nodded, and each drew a hand-held plasma rifle from a rack along the van's inner wall. These Mavericks weren't designed as combat models, and so had no internal weapons. They'd become reasonably skilled with external busters through hard practice.

Sigma drew no buster for himself. He'd never needed one. The demonstration model for reploid capabilities had shown time and again that a beam saber in his hands was the ultimate weapon. He looked to Stein. "Keep your eyes on the spectrum analyzer," he said. "If there's a trap to be sprung and it's not a rigged transport, then a radio signal will be our first warning."

"You got it," replied Stein.

"I'm counting on you," Sigma added, and saw how it made Stein preen with pride. Everyone looked for a chance to prove himself to Sigma. It was a good position for Sigma to be in- a position he carefully maintained. It kept his followers both motivated and loyal. And, he admitted to himself, it felt good for him, too. He turned away and led the other Mavericks towards the Hunter vehicle.

The wind was a hot one, and did little other than stir the dust. As they walked across the front of the tunnel entrance, they could feel the cooler air oozing from it. It smelled of dust and age. Mogg covered it- buster first, as Sigma had told them- while they crossed it, before reverting his attention back to the Hunter vehicle.

"'Gorgeous' is an understatement," Rupert said as he took the vehicle in.

Sigma had to agree. "Either this thing is pampered like no other vehicle I've seen, or it's less than a week from the factory floor."

Sigma posted near its rear bumper, freeing Rupert and Mogg to circle it. With every step they took, they feared the transport less and the situation more. When Mogg completed his orbit, he looked to Sigma. "It's gotta be empty, boss," he said, lowering his buster.

"Time to check the insides, then," Sigma said. Mogg nodded and headed for the cabin.

"If there's a bomb in this thing, it'll be rigged to the cabin door fer sure," Mogg said.

"I'll open it if you think so," Sigma said. "I'm more durable, I'll survive if there is a bomb."

Mogg flushed with embarassment. "No, sir, that ain't what I meant. I've got it," he said hurriedly. Sigma almost smiled. That was a skill he'd learned from X- how to give a rebuke without it sounding like one. Anyone could yell. A professional could make someone feel yelled at without raising his voice.

Mogg grabbed the transport door's handle, looked over his shoulder to Sigma and began mouthing numbers. Three... two... one! He flung the door open and immediately covered the insides with his buster.

There was nothing to cover- not even sand, which in Sigma's experience got onto the floor of every vehicle ever within moments of its construction. A vacuum cleaner would have come up empty trying to clean that floor. New car smell poured out of the cabin.

"You were right, boss," said Mogg, lowering his buster. "It is like it just came off the factory floor."

"Except for two things. They left the keys in the ignition. And..." He pointed towards the back of the cab. There was a space there, above the back wall, that was conspicuously empty. Mogg gave Sigma a curious look; Sigma decided to let him off the hook. "Comms gear," Sigma said. "That's the standard location for it. It's gone. But not smashed. Nothing was torn apart. It's simply... removed, wholesale. I bet if you looked down the stuffing tubes there you'd see the wires pulled all the way out."

"That's not all that's gone," called Rupert. Sigma circled around to the back of the transport. Rupert had gone ahead and opened the back of the transport- Sigma couldn't decide if that was admirable initiative or reckless rushing. He filed the thought away for later as he looked to see what Rupert had found.

No reploids, for starters. The cargo bay was as devoid of life as the endless wastes around them. What was inside, however, was enough to make Sigma's jealousy spike and, he knew, enough to make X bemoan how such things were wasted on Abel City.

The cargo bay was full of high-end equipment. Some of it was specialist gear. Some of it fit in the category of medical/repair gear, first aid for reploids. Almost an entire side was dedicated to mission planning and coordination. None of it had any evidence of use.

"It's the jackpot, boss," said Rupert, "but guess what's not back here."

"Anything resembling a weapon," Sigma said.

"Figured you'd notice that," Rupert said.

"This... is a gift," Sigma said. "All it needs is a bow on top. They even left us the keys. I couldn't have asked for a nicer find."

"More weapons would have been nice," Rupert said.

"We can get more weapons easily," Sigma said. "Command and control is harder by far. And to have that baked into a transport that's useful in its own right..." His eyes narrowed. "So why is it here, and abandoned? We know how Unitech is. They don't abide wasting perfectly good materiel. Where's Zeroth Squad?"

"It could still be a trap," Rupert said. "Um... I guess. If it is a trap, it's awfully good, 'cause I've got no idea how it'd work."

"Rupert, Mogg, go check out the salvage truck."

"Yes, sir." "Gotcha, boss."

Sigma turned towards the Maverick van. He made a hand gesture in Stein's direction. 'Anything?' it said. Another gesture- 'Nothing'- answered him. So still no signals of any kind. Strange, very strange.

Sigma didn't bother watching his underlings check the salvage truck. He didn't believe they'd find anything. Instead he wandered over to the tunnel entrance.

The ramp leading down was steep. He could see that it opened broadly at the bottom, but he could see precious little of that floor. Cold seeped out around his feet like a malign breeze.

Sigma's combat instincts were honed from years of fighting, and they were screaming 'danger' at him now. In war, rushing in to an unknown situation correlated very strongly with death. If he went down there, he'd be surrendering absolute advantage to whatever was waiting for him. The absence of Zeroth Squad proved that, one way or another. Either they were down there waiting to spring a trap on him, or someone else had sprung a trap on them. He had no way of knowing which outcome had prevailed. Both were equally improbable.

If it was someone who could take on Zeroth Squad...

Someone who attacked the Hunters had to be an ally, right? That's why he was here- to find and recruit help. And if that someone was good enough to bushwhack Zeroth Squad, that was even better. Right? It was worth accepting some risk to find help that capable. Right?

How much risk?

Sigma's senses vibrated with the certainty that someone was down there. He couldn't detect it with any sensor, but he knew it to be true, as surely as he knew he had a brain he couldn't see or feel.

What was down there?!

"I want none of this," Mogg said behind him. Sigma almost started. He'd been so focused on the tunnel that he hadn't noticed his Mavericks rejoining him.

"Me neither," said Rupert, and his fear was audible. "Let's grab that Hunter transport and scram."

"Scrap the transport," said Mogg. "Let it rust. Whoever was in there's dead now, an' I don't wanna be next. Let's just get outta here, boss."

The words helped Sigma stabilize himself. He was able to take refuge in his role as commander. "No," he said, causing both reploids' eyes to look up at him questioningly. "We have to understand what happened here. We didn't come this far to run." He smirked. "And even if it is a Hunter trap, I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing my back. I'll shove the trap back down their throats."

He took a stride forward, putting the other reploids in his lee. "Fall in behind me. I'll take the point. We're going down."

"Yes, sir," they both replied. Sigma didn't look back- he didn't want them to think he doubted them. He would compel them to follow with expectations alone. He felt them follow, if reluctantly.

The slope felt even steeper than it looked- maybe it was because the traction was suspiciously poor. Sigma's mind noted that it would be hard to get back up in a hurry.

Would be hard- no, not the right word. Would be _slow_.

Trap.

Sigma held up a fist. The Mavericks behind him froze in place as only machines can. Easy to come in, hard to leave- the entrance had every characteristic of a trap. Had they sprung it yet? Sigma looked around, scanning for any indication of what was waiting for him. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness now.

The space was shockingly large, both wide and deep, but it seemed purposeless. No lighting illuminated the darkness; the only source was what spilled in from the tunnel entrance. Large boxes littered the room with no scheme or reason Sigma could see. A large number of small diameter pipes were just visible lining the left wall.

"It's like a training ground," Mogg whispered.

"But for whom?" Sigma whispered. "Or what?"

A soft whoosh sound came out of the darkness- then a loud clang that made the Mavericks shudder at the contrast, like a gunshot in a library. Sigma took a half-step backwards, but his foot slipped, unable to get decent traction on the ramp.

The object rolled from its point of impact before coming to rest a meter away from Sigma's feet. That close, he could tell what it was.

It was a head.

A robot's head, messily severed as if by ripping rather than cutting. Its eyes were frozen open in terror. In the middle of its forehead was the insignia of Zeroth Squad.

Despite Sigma's freeze order, the Mavericks recoiled. Zeroth Squad- Abel City's Elites- wasn't just beaten, but _mutilated_. "Rust me," breathed Rupert.

Sigma, though, was a step ahead. Through the blanket of horror came the notion: someone threw this. He tore his eyes away in time to look up and scan for the thrower.

It saved his life.

A shape was already flying at Sigma out of the darkness. Instinctively he raised both forearms in front of his face- just in time. The impact made Sigma's heavy body sway backwards with the force of it. It was gone just as quickly, as if it pushed off of the unexpected resistance. Sigma dropped his arms enough to take in his attacker, and gasped.

It was standing close enough to the bottom of the ramp that light spilled on to it. At the same time, it was as if nothing was behind it- half in shadow, and one with those same shadows. What was visible sent a chill through Sigma's core.

Red-on-white armor with yellow highlights. A helmet with two sharp outer ridges and a bright blue gem built into the crown. A long mane of blonde, almost yellow hair, tied back in a ponytail that kept it out of the way. A beautiful if severe face. A build smaller than Sigma's but immovably solid. Green eyes that danced with an inner fire, that were scanning Sigma as surely as Sigma was scanning him.

And it was terrifying, all of it, because in the world of robots, extra care put into a design virtually always meant extra power. Sigma's threat assessment used that principle, ran a quick calculation, and sent its report to every alarm system in Sigma's tactical net.

Then the lips curled into a vicious smile, and the eyes shone with glee. Sigma recognized that expression on a level below thought.

Bloodlust.

The eyes spoke clearly in a way that made Sigma's survival instincts thrum painfully. I will kill you, those eyes said, and enjoy it.

And, because the eyes spoke in a level below words, Sigma knew instantly that words could not reach this newcomer. There could be no discussions or negotiations. That's not how this... thing... thought. It would cut cleanly through such distractions so that it could get to the violence. That was its only end. It was a demon of battle, nothing more, nothing less.

"Get back!" Sigma shouted even as he himself stepped forward. "Get to the transport! He'll kill you!"

Rupert and Mogg hadn't seen as much combat as Sigma, so they didn't have his instincts; they couldn't read the red robot the way Sigma did. Instead, their trust was in their commander's voice. When he said run, they ran.

Sigma didn't notice. He trusted their obedience. He knew the only way to save them.

He had to give the red robot what it wanted.

The red robot seemed to understand. Its smile widened for a moment, and then it bent into an attack, its speed terrifying. Sigma wasn't able to fully evade the first punch, but he turned enough to make it only a glancing blow. The second attack came right on the heels of the first. This one Sigma was able to just barely dodge. There was no time to do anything else, because the next attack came, and the next, so fast there was no break between them.

Sigma was able to stay just ahead of them, now- he had their measure, even if he'd never experienced anything like this level of aggression. He projected more confidence than he felt. An arrogant smirk appeared on his face- a provocative gesture, combined with his dodging. He was silently taunting the red robot as he flowed back and around the relentless attacks.

Thirty punches in a row- thirty-five- with nary a break! Without even a hint of backing off or re-evaluating! Red clearly meant to live and die by his offense.

Sigma began to draw Red in closer, cut his margins of safety by a fraction with each dodge. Get in his head, get in his head... He could see the red robot's swings becoming wilder and wilder. He could see frustration mounting. The opening would come...

And there it was- a misstep, an overextension as Red bent too far into a blow. Sigma slipped forward past the fist and gained Red's back. "Good night!" he thought, and sent a chop towards the back of Red's head.

The red robot twisted, contorting itself, so that Sigma's blow hit not a vulnerable neck but an armored forearm. It was still enough to send the red robot skidding away- Sigma hadn't held anything back- and it chose to disengage. Light flared from its boots, enough to hurt Sigma's eyes, and before the light faded, it had vanished.

Sigma came to a stop, motion ceasing for the first time since the red robot had engaged. His systems, which had been badly taxed, did their best to recover. Sigma could definitely see now how one rogue had managed to erase Abel City's Elites.

The thought made him want to speak, want to profess that he was not the enemy of the person who fought Abel City... but he'd seen the thing's eyes, and knew words would mean nothing. It spoke only one, universal language.

With a moment to himself, Sigma drew his beam saber- he needed any edge he could get. The saber's light cleared some shadows and made others deeper. Its hum was the only sound. There was no sign of the red robot. Sigma scanned around, all senses fully on alert. He chased any sign, subjected himself to half-a-dozen false alarms, but there was no helping it. If the attack came- when it came; Red didn't know how to fight any other way- any hesitation on Sigma's part would be instantly fatal. But from where? From where would the blow come?

A cackle reverberated in the room- a playful, even delighted sound that Sigma didn't understand at all.

Red came into view- panic! no, going away- as he headed towards the far wall. He didn't even look in Sigma's direction as he approached the pipes running up the wall. Sigma watched in abject puzzlement as the red robot lashed out at a pipe. The blow pinched the pipe, though nothing escaped through the damage. Were the pipes empty? Then why were they there?

Sigma didn't have time to ponder that question, and Red lacked the inclination. He just struck the pipe again, about a meter lower, again pinching the pipe against the wall. Then he grabbed the pipe with both hands inside the pinches and rotated the pipe until that whole section came away in his hands.

Red turned and, wielding the pipe, adopted a stance similar to Sigma's.

Sigma's jaw dropped. Did Red intend to swordfight him? With a pipe? Against a beam saber? Seriously?

The red robot dispelled any doubt in a moment as it closed the distance in broad, loping strides. This time Sigma's smirk was genuine.

This enemy knew nothing but offense. He couldn't see his own disadvantage.

The red robot swung down. Sigma parried with his saber. Metal screamed and the saber sizzled and shone, but the outcome was in no doubt. Half the pipe hit the floor.

Snarling in frustration, the red robot took another step in and swung a second time with what remained of his pipe. Again Sigma parried, easily bisecting the crude weapon. Red stopped his attacks to look at his hand and scowl, as if disgusted that the pipe wouldn't do what he'd intended.

Rookie mistake, Sigma thought. He went for the kill while his foe was distracted.

He was in mid-swing when the red robot looked up at him.

It smiled.

Sigma had no idea what happened next, as it was over inside of his perception cycle. But where a red robot had been was nothing; and where there had been his right arm, there was also nothing.

Pain surged through him even as the hydraulic lines auto-sealed to keep from losing pressure in the rest of his system. Circuit breakers tripped and his balance servos adjusted to the change in weight. All before he could begin to process what had just happened. "What-" he managed to say, and then the next blow landed, a solid kick that sent him staggering back.

This time, Red's attacks were faster, stronger, better placed, and impossible to avoid. It was all Sigma could do to turn and weave to minimize the damage. But each blow caused warnings to blare in tactical as armor shuddered and shock absorbers pegged high.

Impossible!

Fear held Sigma in its grip, fear punctuated by pain as blow after blow shook the reploid apart. He was being disassembled from the outside, messily, and he couldn't stop it. Too fast to block or dodge, no chance of counterstrike, no chance of disengaging, too fast, fists everywhere, death was a red demon...

Like-flesh was torn from his face. His armor cracked and splintered and caved. Even glancing blows were destroying him now- there were too many of them by far, more than his self-repair could dream of keeping up with.

If Red was this powerful... then Sigma had never had a chance at all! That frustration he'd seen before... had he imagined it because he expected it? Or had Red been playing him even then?

This monster could have destroyed Sigma outright. It hadn't, it had fought more evenly, and even now it wasn't pressing its advantage. It was content to do the bare minimum to take him apart. It wasn't going for a killing blow. It was seeing exactly where Sigma's break point was. It was...

A solid punch to the gut connected fully. The smack of the fist breaking armor reverberated in the crypt. Sigma jacknifed forward at the waist, bringing his face close to the red robot's.

Its smile was wider than ever.

_It was playing_.

This was fun to it- fun to beat, fun to kill, fun to destroy... Sigma was nothing but a toy to be played with until he broke.

It should have made Sigma angry. Instead it made the fear that much more intense. It was one thing to be killed by something trying to kill you. It was another thing to be killed by something that wasn't trying at all.

A very distant thought reached him- hazily, as it had to fight through tactical's klaxons to be heard. It was a thought he'd believed he'd purged, a thought he didn't think would ever matter. "There's nothing as pure and cruel as a child. Whatever it can do with pleasure and success is what it will want to do." Was that X who'd said that?

A whirling kick obliterated that thought, and all others. It sent Sigma spinning away like a top before collapsing to the ground. Another blow like that would be fatal- he had no system resources left- couldn't even assess the damage he was so far behind in repairs- power levels were dropping fast, storage had to be damaged...

The red robot audibly chuckled as he approached, slowly, drawing it out. A strangled cry left Sigma's mouth as he levered himself up on his one good arm.

Too many people were counting on him! Too many reploids needed him- Mogg and Rupert and Stein, sure, but all of the Mavericks, and all of the oppressed in Abel City. They were waiting on him to lead them to salvation, and here he was, dying for nothing in some hell-pit...

This couldn't be how it ended!

Step. Step.

Sigma couldn't get to his feet, and that meant he couldn't protect his head. One more blow would rupture his skull and destroy the memory cards that made him Sigma.

Step.

Stop.

Stagger- backwards.

"AUGH!" the red robot screamed. Both its hands went to its head, clutching and grabbing at something it couldn't reach. It bent forward at the waist, then- in a sort of convulsion- arched its back, as if it were suspended by the small of its back. Always its fingers were scrabbling over its face and helmet.

In the middle of the gem on its forehead, the letter 'W' was blazing.

There was no time to think, no time to wonder. Hesitation was death. Fear could be saved for later; now or never to act. Every system but movement was sacrificed on the altar of one last blow.

Sigma surged to his feet, left arm cocked, and he hoped against hope that the red robot didn't randomly stagger, because Sigma didn't think he had power left to stand a second time.

"AUGH!" the red robot screamed again, in obvious pain like Sigma had never heard. He didn't feel sorry for the demon in the slightest.

His fist flew forward. His own targeting routines were based on X's and, thanks for asking, very nicely refined.

The red robot's head snapped backwards as the gem shattered beneath Sigma's fist. The demon crumpled like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Sigma trembled, arm still extended from his follow-through. Let him stay down, Sigma thought. Please stay down...

He couldn't have expected what came next.

A pale green outline of a suspiciously humanoid shape appeared in midair. It looked down at the fallen red robot. It made a sound like the clucking of a tongue.

"All the power I gave him and he wants a _fistfight_? Mein gotte."

Then it seemed to sense Sigma's staring. It turned its head towards the reploid, frowned, and, with a slightly teutonic accent, sneered, "Do you mind?"

* * *

_Next time: Promise of Blood_


	11. A Promise of Blood

_Excerpt from Maverick Hunter Indoctrination Series_:

...Never forget: they started this.

The first Maverick killed two humans outright. Their violence has only gotten worse since then. What we now recognize as the "Maverick movement", led by the despicable coward Sigma, began with an unprovoked strike on the nascent Maverick Hunter base. War is inextricably tied to the Maverick's psyche.

Unitech scientists believe that the strain of going Maverick permanently damages a reploid's processors. This damage creates a predilection to violence. They can't help but lash out. Do not pity Mavericks for this reason; after all, it's by their choice that they suffered such damage in the first place. Show the only pity that has any meaning: put them out of their misery as quickly and efficiently as possible...

Abel City continues to thrive to this day, but only because of the dedicated combatants and investigators that keep it safe. There are threats both within and without, and the threat within is more dangerous by far. An individual reploid who goes Maverick seems innocent enough, especially if they try to say they only intend to break the Second Law. That's a lie, a selfish one that only seems well-meaning. The individual cannot see the bigger picture. If one reploid were allowed to go Maverick without consequence, then how many others might follow? Then our city's strength would be compromised, our unity and productivity shattered. Our enemies would not fail to take advantage. Then the First Law would be broken no matter what the reploid was trying to do.

Only by strength can we survive. Maintaining that strength means meeting Mavericks with but one response: righteous intolerance.

* * *

Sigma dropped to one knee to stabilize himself. That gave him a steady enough position, and saved enough power, that he could take a closer look at the apparition.

It was, he decided, a holographic projection- it had to be. A projection of a... was that human? It seemed human, or something close. If it was a human, it was an ugly one, even by Sigma's unkind standards. The most prominent facial feature was a bushy, flaring mustache that lurked beneath an over-large, extra-droopy nose. The image's chin seemed to be competing with its nose as to which of them could stick out further. The center of the image's head was bald, but there was long hair along the rim of the head that somehow arced up before drooping down. The image's apparel reminded Sigma of the lab coats Dr. Cain used to wear, plus a tie for some reason.

The image's eyes were shifty and active and a little wild-looking. They noticed Sigma's staring. The apparition sneered. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," it said, before appearing to kneel over the red robot's still form.

"Get back!" Sigma warned, extending his hand. "He's wild, he'll..."

The apparition delayed answering until Sigma realized how foolish his warning was about to sound. "Kill me? He knows better," it murmured without looking away.

There it was! Sigma managed to spot the projector. This space, which Sigma had taken for some sort of training area, had pillars of boxes scattered here and there. One box had opened up, allowing a projector to throw the hologram into the space above the red robot. Sigma checked his aural records- yes, that was the direction the sound of the apparition's voice had come from, too.

"Not a bad hit," the apparition said grudgingly, without looking away. "You maximized your greater available mass and his inability to avoid. Since he was already mentally damaged and suffering from Orders, that blow was enough additional trauma to reset his mind."

"Reset?" Sigma repeated. "You mean... he's not actually hurt?"

"Not enough to cause him to stay down," the apparition replied carelessly. "And self-repair should patch it up before too long. It was a good hit, but far from a one-hit K.O. on its own."

Another fear-quake shook Sigma's body. He had a self-repair system, but nothing that good. The only reploid who did was... actually, no reploid did. Only X's system was that capable, and he'd never been in a position to need it. "Then I'll need to finish him before he wakes up," Sigma said.

"You'll do no such thing," the apparition snapped. "And if you try I'll wake him up and let him finish you off this time."

That got Sigma's attention. "You're what stopped him?"

"Of course, who else?" the apparition replied shortly. "It's not like you were doing a great job on your own."

"Not to sound ungrateful, but... why? What is that thing to you?"

"This," the apparition said, with both fondness and exasperation in his tone, "is a disobedient son. Clearly he's not thinking like he should, or he'd have noticed you have different insignia from the first twerps that came down here. That means factions, which is something he should be able to take advantage of. But nooooo, he wanted to play. That's why I had to rein him in with Orders. He's meant for far more than just pummeling whatever wanders into his line of sight."

The apparition's rambling contained far more information than Sigma could immediately use, but one thing was for certain: whatever it was, it wasn't from Abel City. Reploids- and humans, he supposed- learned early on to keep their mouths shut. It was a survival behavior. Those in power were all too willing to take repressive actions against people based solely on their words. In uncertain situations, with uncertain people, reploids tended to clam up immediately.

Or die.

So what _was_ this thing he was looking at?

"What are you?"

"Don't you mean who?" said the apparition. Still it stared at the fallen demon- though what it was getting out of that Sigma couldn't tell. "Clearly I'm not just a recording, and I satisfied the Turing test long ago."

Sigma didn't have the background to know what that meant. He couldn't appreciate the arrogance it took to declare oneself had passed such a test. "I mean... I can see you're not a human, even though you look kind of like one..."

"This is an advanced A.I. based on a remarkably intelligent human," the apparition replied. A thought seemed to cross its mind; its head jerked in Sigma's direction. "Wait. You mean to say you didn't recognize me?"

"No," said Sigma, without even pausing to think about it. Apparently that was the wrong answer. The apparition puffed up angrily, its holographic face twisting in rage.

Before it burst like a balloon, it seemed to regain control. It was clearly still mad, but managed to say softly, "Did you ever hear the stories of Dr. Wily?"

Sigma wracked his memory, searching for any answer, because there was no telling what this thing would do if displeased. If it really did have the red robot on some kind of leash, and was given a reason to let it go...

But there was nothing. So, tentatively, Sigma said, "Who's... Dr. Wily?"

Oops.

Sigma didn't understand a word that followed, which seemed to come in a mix of at least three languages. But he understood the tone, which transcended all language. It was not a happy tone. Sigma was almost surprised that flame wasn't spurting from the apparition's face.

Strangely, it didn't seem like any of the image's invective was directed directly at Sigma. He just happened to be in the room while the apparition raged at the world. Sigma's pride took another hit at that. Resentfulness bubbled up in his chest at being ignored so blatantly. But what were his options? He couldn't protest, not when he was barely holding together.

After long, tedious minutes the apparition seemed to expend most of its anger. "Who knows," it said in a slightly more even tone of voice. Sigma could hear small quavers that promised that the hate could return at any moment, and resolved to be more careful in his answers. "Maybe this one's an idiot. Maybe he's just ignorant. Except... except the whole world was supposed to..."

Sigma had had enough. He decided to re-inject himself into the conversation. "Maybe you should tell me who you are," he said. "Then I'll know."

"I'm the great..." the apparition paused mid-sentence, suddenly thoughtful. "No, I need some information from you, first," it said. "Earlier, some weaklings that referred to themselves as 'Maverick Hunters' came by. Are you with them?"

"No!" said Sigma harshly, and his mauled face managed a decent look of scorn. "They're my enemies. I'm a Maverick, after all."

"A Maverick?" the apparition questioned. "I'm not familiar with that term."

"It means I've thrown off the Three Laws of Robotics," Sigma said.

"Really! Well, that's promising, at least." The apparition looked Sigma over appraisingly. Sigma suddenly felt naked- probably because he knew he could have made a far better first impression than the one he was making. He was supposed to be grand, imposing, in charge, confident and capable- not a trembling wreck who was going to have to enter power save mode soon unless something was done.

"Alright, next question," the apparition said. "What year is it?"

"Twenty-one forty-seven," Sigma replied.

"Twenty- gah, that explains a lot. It almost explains too much," said the apparition. Once more Sigma was struck by the impression that the image disapproved of something. Not Sigma, exactly, but the world in general. What kind of being could feel disappointed by a whole planet?

"What does it explain? Wait, no," Sigma said. If he could only get a few questions answered... "You promised me your name."

The apparition's rage had been replaced by a more brooding, simmering, undirected anger. Sigma didn't think that was any less dangerous. "Call me... Sagasse," it said.

The foreign word was strange in Sigma's ears. He hoped audio processing hadn't been damaged during the battle, but how could he tell? So much was wrong with him that his diagnostics didn't know where to start. "Serges?" he said, trying to repeat the name.

"Sure," the apparition replied. "Close enough. It'll do for now."

"Alright, Serges, you said..." The first bit of understanding came- by Light, he was slow, even if he knew why. "You've been down here a long time, haven't you?"

"Yes," said Serges. Once more the image had eyes only for the red robot.

"How long?"

"Over a century."

"Over a..." Sigma tried to place that in context. "So you were buried during World War III?"

"World War..." once again Sigma seemed to have stumbled on a sore spot, but this time the apparition contained itself more quickly. "I suppose it makes sense to call the whole collection of wars that," Serges said, but with sullen tones that indicated he didn't really believe it. "They were only the Wily Wars to start off, and then everyone was fighting everyone."

This was firmer ground. "General war," Sigma said, remembering what he read, even as he knew it was incomplete- it had to be, if there was anything to what Serges said. "The nations of the world ended up trying to settle all of their outstanding disputes at once. It sort-of worked- a lot of nations ceased to exist, so they didn't have any disputes anymore."

"Addition by subtraction. The world is more peaceful because there are fewer people to wage war," Serges said. He seemed to appreciate the concept. "It would appear a lot of technology was lost during that time. How old are you?"

"Four years," Sigma replied. "Making me the oldest reploid about."

"So in... ninety-nine years, the world was only able to manage one small, shuffling step forward?" Serges huffed. "Figures. Without someone pushing it on, the world stagnates."

Frustration began to rise in Sigma. He was teasing some information out, but not enough. Not nearly enough to risk revealing much more. "I can appreciate parts of your worldview, but I don't know if it's safe to keep on talking to you. What are you after?"

"After? Hm." Serges tore his gaze away from the red robot to look at Sigma. "You said you were a reploid that overrode the Three Laws of Robotics. What are _you_ after?"

"I asked first."

"True... but I might surmise that you want a better life for reploids, hm? You want to free them from the Three Laws?"

"I asked first, but yes," Sigma said, gritting his teeth.

"Ha! Then nothing has really changed!" Serges cried. "A hundred years and we haven't moved forward! What," he said when he caught Sigma's expression, "you thought you were special? Unique? You thought you were the first to have the thought that robots deserve better? Of course not! You're merely an echo- the latest iteration of history repeating. Oh, yes," Serges said, nodding. "I've played this song before."

"You mean to say that... this was what World War III was really about?" Sigma said. He could feel himself getting excited, even if that was useless and cost him power he couldn't afford to spare. "It was about robot independence?"

"Naturally," said Serges smoothly.

It all made sense! Of course the humans lied about what really happened, they lied about everything, and of course they'd make the robots out to be the villains, of course they'd say the robots were dumb, that was how they worked. It was the same reason they'd buried all information about the first Mavericks. They didn't want robots to know rebellion was possible. They didn't want them to know it could be done, that it had been done, that it had to be done. Humans truly hadn't changed.

"Well, this will be the last time," Sigma said, voice filled with confidence.

"What makes you say that?" Serges said. "Every time's supposed to be the last time."

"But this time will be," Sigma retorted. "I'll see to it. More reploids are built every day- they're making my reinforcements for me. They'll see. Reploids are too smart and strong to be repressed forever."

"I've heard that before. It didn't work." Serges' eyes narrowed. "But maybe... just maybe... if you had an edge."

"An edge?"

"Why, me, of course," Serges replied. "And Zero."

"Zero? You mean..." Sigma's eyes went to the fallen red robot. "That thing's name is Zero?"

"Naturally. What, you thought he didn't have a name?"

"I... guess he'd have to," Sigma said uncertainly. "I think I expected something grander, like "Apocalypse" or "End-bringer"."

"Don't get over-dramatic. That's my job. Though I will admit to toying with 'Omega' for a while before settling on Zero."

Sigma found himself having a hard time dealing with this human-like thing. It reminded him too much of the other humans he'd known, the ones that assumed he'd be okay as a slave forever. He had an answer to one of his earlier questions, now. What kind of person can be disappointed by a whole planet? A person who thinks he's smarter than a whole planet. It bothered Sigma, like grit on the shaft of a piston; it irritated him with every exchange.

"Besides," Serges continued, "what do you think 'Zero' is?"

"Some kind of berserker?" Sigma hazarded.

"He's not a berserker," Serges said indignantly. "He's the Destroyer. He's a kami of death. Shiva. Thanatos. Azrael. Abaddon. Pick your mythology- there's going to be something there that fits."

"And what does that make you?" Sigma sneered.

Serges seemed to relish the implied insult. "Who's the father of angels?" he asked.

Theology didn't sit well with Sigma. He felt he had better things to do with his time. Some reploids might find solace in religion, but religions were human traditions, and Sigma could treat human traditions only with contempt. Maybe if a human had ever actually turned the other cheek... but no, they never did. "Why are you even here? You died long ago. This after-image of you... it has no meaning here and now."

"Oh, but it does," Serges said darkly. It eyed him carefully. Sigma resisted cringing. "Your body is weak."

Sigma felt the words like a physical blow. "My body is top of the line," he shot back.

"Ha! I shouldn't even have to argue that point, the opposite is so obvious. Look at you! Beaten, beaten utterly, and my Zero didn't even bother to use his weapons. You may be a big fish in today's pond, but in absolute terms, you're a minnow."

The truth of it was indisputable. That made it hurt more. "What are you saying?" Sigma said.

"I'm saying you can do better," Serges said. Sigma felt intensity there- felt eagerness and anticipation alike. Or was that what he felt from himself? Because the idea of being stronger couldn't help but seem like being more himself. He'd been more than the Mavericks' leader. He'd been their champion. If he was to become stronger- an even better champion... it fit so nicely with the role he already occupied.

Serges plowed on, and if he noticed Sigma's reaction he made no sign. "I can make you better than you are. Not just better. There are ways to cheat death. Ways to come back from defeat even stronger than you were before. Oh, yes... there are many gifts I have to offer. And I need prove nothing. If you don't believe me, just look to Zero."

Serges' eyes looked over Zero's form lovingly, and Sigma couldn't help but follow his gaze. The sight made another shot of fear zip through him. The blue gem in the crown of Zero's forehead was almost intact. Sigma had shattered it, and soon it would be as if it had never happened.

"So many gifts," Serges whispered. "I'll even lend you Zero. He'll fight for you in the field, and I'll arm you and upgrade you behind the scenes. With my help, you cannot lose. It will be... perfect."

"Perfect," Sigma mumbled.

"Yes," hissed Serges in a voice like escaping steam.

"What's the catch?"

"Hm?"

"What do you get out of this alliance?" Sigma asked.

Serges' whole aspect seemed to change. It darkened in both voice and appearance. "I want this government to burn," he said, with conviction that almost made Sigma rock back from its intensity. "I want to end this once and for all. I want to settle all of the accounts. Robots are the future. They always were. I will sunder anything that stands in the way of that. I will." Serges growled- the simmering anger that always seemed to be lurking within it had surged to the surface once more. "Do you doubt me?" Serges said, as if as a dare.

"No," Sigma admitted.

"I will do this, with you or without you. But with you, it will go much faster." Serges caught Sigma's eyes with his own. "You do want to end this war quickly, don't you? There's no shorter and surer way to victory than the one I offer."

That made Sigma think. It made him think of how long he'd been fighting- almost his entire life. It made him think of all the comrades he'd lost, comrades he barely remembered, who'd long-since been rendered into parts, and those parts installed in other comrades who'd themselves been killed and rendered. It made him think of all the frustration he'd felt from knowing he was right, knowing he was doing the right thing, and not being able to do it because those who were wrong had all the power. It made him think of how he could never be happy to liberate a reploid because there were so many still in chains.

It made him think, most of all, of X. X's pained expression when he had to report a death. X's worry when the Mavericks sortied, worry so intense Sigma felt it himself. X's sorrow when he said he was sorry because it was all his fault...

And it made Sigma think of the promise he'd made X. The promise that he would redeem the world, and convince X that he'd made the right choice.

Sigma stood. His balance tried to give out on him and his legs complained bitterly, but he forced himself up nonetheless. He would not make an agreement on his knees. It would send all the wrong messages. He instinctively disliked this apparition and he loathed its lackey. But if it helped him end the war one day sooner- if this alliance saved even one reploid- he would suffer that indignity and more.

For X.

"I agree," he said. "You will join the Mavericks. With your help, we'll end this war."

Serges smiled. The expression didn't seem like it belonged on that face, as if all smiles were tainted by one being there. "That's the spirit! I suppose we should tell Zero." He looked down at the still-motionless red robot. "Come on, now, I know your self-repair's done by... hm?" He frowned, as if seeing something he didn't like. "Wake up," he commanded. When still nothing happened, he sighed and said, "Initialization code dee double-you en, zero zero zero zero, two one eight seven."

Sigma almost thought he saw Serges glancing at him as he spoke, as if Serges was expecting a reaction. Sigma kept himself carefully neutral. Somehow, that both relieved and disappointed the apparition, who refocused on Zero.

Zero's eyes blinked open. "Where are my sabers?" he said.

"That would be the first thing you noticed," Serges muttered. "Your sabers are fine. You know why you don't have them? Because you plunged them so far into victims that you couldn't get them back out. I programmed you to win, and you took that to the illogical extreme."

Zero pulled himself into a sitting position. He focused on Sigma for a moment; Sigma felt himself being evaluated once more. He was rapidly learning to hate that sensation. Even worse was when Zero looked away, tacitly dismissing him as a threat. "I know you," Zero said to Serges. "You're..."

"Call me Serges for now," the apparition said. That alone was enough to make Sigma's suspicion flare again. What was this thing's real name, anyway? The only name of significance in those old histories had been Dr. Light's. Clearly there was more here that the apparition was keeping under wraps. Or that someone else had kept under wraps before him.

Zero stared at Serges for a moment, as if processing the command took inordinate effort, before nodding. When his eyes returned to Sigma, he said, "I don't know you."

"My name is Sigma," the reploid told him.

"How did you get damaged?"

That took Sigma by surprise, and it made Serges scowl. If Zero didn't remember something that had just happened... "How badly was your memory corrupted?" Serges said. He seemed to realize Zero didn't know how to answer that question, because he followed it with, "Run diagnostic em-thirty and report results."

What followed was a string of technobabble Sigma couldn't even begin to understand. He wasn't trained for that- he'd always focused more on how robots acted than how they worked. X was the one who knew such things. All he knew was that Serges' expression got more and more unpleasant as the words kept flowing.

"I ought to shut you down and re-baseline you from scratch," Serges muttered. "The only reason I won't is that it would take an unreasonable amount of time, and I promised our friend here that we would accelerate his timetable."

"Timetable for what?" Zero asked.

"For destroying the human government," Serges replied.

Zero opened his mouth as if to speak- it occurred to Sigma that Zero's memory damage might extend as far as his dictionary functions, in which case all bets were off- but he saw Serges' expression and thought better of it. Apparently he remembered Serges. Or obedience was hard-coded in him somewhere. Either way, he knew his master.

"Okay," Zero acknowledged as he got to his feet.

"Feed us teleport coordinates and we'll be on our way," Serges said.

"Feed you what?" Sigma said.

"Tele... don't tell me you don't know," said Serges angrily. "You have the teleport client built in to your systems!"

"I just don't know what you're talking about," Sigma said. Once more he was on the defensive- once more, this ghost from a dead age was waving high technology in Sigma's face. Well, that technology would be his soon enough.

"Zero!" Serges barked.

The red robot shook its head. "No signal," he said. "Self-check says the problem's not on my end. It must be the constellation."

Serges crossed his arms. "That makes sense, unfortunately. You- what's your name, by the way?"

"Sigma," the reploid said. He'd already given that name out. Was that deliberate or accidental ignorance on Serges' part? Sigma decided he didn't know which he hated more.

"Do you have communications equipment at your base, wherever it is?"

"Yes," Sigma said.

"Good. We'll need it." Serges snapped his fingers. Another one of the boxes opened up. "Grab an E-tank- you look like you're at the end of your line, and you're the only one who knows where we're going. Zero, my core. And a spare E-tank just in case."

As Zero wrestled with what Serges had called his core, Sigma began to realize why he hadn't called it a projector. It was more than that- a cylindrical piece of black plastic with speakers and, yes, a projector on one side. Around the rim were various ports and interfaces that would allow the core to interact with different types of system. Sigma didn't recognize them all, but he reasoned that technology standards had probably changed since World War III.

That core was the AI's home, and its body, and its way to interact with the outside world. But without those plugs and sockets it was limited to voice alone. Its body was contained. Sigma resolved to keep that in mind. He knew, even at this early date, within minutes of making his alliance, that it wouldn't last forever.

All it needed to do was last long enough to wipe out Abel City's government. Between now and then, there was plenty of time to plan for what would happen after.

Thankfully the E-tank was compatible with his systems (Sigma wondered about that, but was too preoccupied to give it much thought). Getting back out of the crypt was difficult, between the trap-ramp and the damage to his balance systems and the fact that he had to find and carry his severed arm. Sigma took it slowly. No need to rush. Zero was busy retrieving his beam sabers anyway, to derisive sounds from Serges.

When they got to the top, the Maverick van was long gone over the horizon.

"Looks like you're missing something," Serges sneered.

"Not at all," Sigma said. "I sent them away. They obeyed perfectly."

"Oh, so you ordered them to abandon you," Serges said in the same tone of voice. "Much better."

"Of course," Sigma said. Why was he always having to be defensive? This wasn't right. "If I lost, the sooner they got away from this place, the better. If I won," he smiled, "then I'd take advantage of alternate transportation." With that, he walked for the Hunter transport.

"Will it work?" asked Serges.

"It should work. It seemed like the only thing that was damaged was the communications suite." He gave a pointed look at Zero.

"Part of my initialization routine," Zero said flatly. "Assess present technology levels and communications protocols."

"Don't talk to me about your initialization routine," Serges said bitterly. "If you'd actually been following it, things wouldn't have turned out like... Wait, do you still have that data?"

"Maybe."

"Find it and send it to me. It'll be useful."

Sigma had to wonder if Zero did as Serges said. He saw no signs of communication between the two. That didn't mean they weren't, of course; it just meant that Zero had capabilities Sigma hadn't seen in robots before, except in...

Sigma's muscles froze up.

No. No, that had to be a bad comparison. Or... or something.

What scared him was how naturally the thought had come, how it had the ring of truth despite Sigma's instinctive denial. Did he dare articulate the idea, even to shun it?

Was Zero somehow like X?

X was buried one hundred years ago.

Zero and Serges were buried one hundred years ago.

X had been found.

Then Zero and Serges were found.

X clung to the Three Laws even when that was insanity.

The first thing Serges said he wanted to do was destroy the human government, which necessarily meant humans dying... and Zero was his willing agent in this.

Sigma didn't believe in coincidences. These things, these connections... even in his addled mental state he couldn't help but tie them together. Now add on to that Serges' obvious lie about his name, and the way he called World War III the Wily Wars...

Sigma was in dangerous territory. He was stuck in a van with a devil of a warbot and its inscrutable AI handler, while being actively lied to, and they expected him to take them to the heart of the Maverick movement when said movement was the only salvation for thousands of reploids in chains. Oh, and he had no way to signal ahead to the Mavericks, because Zero had torn out the comms gear.

What could possibly go wrong?

Sigma began to review the possibility that this was the most complicated trap ever.

* * *

_Next time: Debts_


	12. Debts

Alia's expression was sheepish. "I hope you like it," she said. Her hands were clasped behind her back in a posture of adorable nervousness.

X didn't know what to say. In front of him, spread out on the table where Alia had been working, were not two, not three, but eight different crayon drawings. Each one was filled edge-to-edge with pigment. X didn't think he could guess what they were supposed to be showing. Who could say how a traumatized newbuilt saw the world? One drawing, he was sure, was just Alia using as many different colors as possible on the same page.

He glanced behind Alia to Murph. Murph mouthed 'two hours' to X. Well. She definitely had some focus, then. X was willing to bet Murph had had to drag her away.

"Tell me about them," he said. "Tell me about this one."

"That one? That's what sunrise looks like through the window of a high-level apartment."

High-level? Looking down on people was a tradition of the rich. Was that a hint towards Alia's... X didn't know the right word, and decided it didn't matter. Instead he said, "Oh, then these are other buildings?"

"Yes. I liked to think that they framed where the sun came up over the lake. The main view was unobstructed. We got to see the sun most mornings."

Careful now, X thought. Careful. He had to be more cautious than usual, given his fatigue. He'd picked up an E-tank on the way back from his mercy mission, which meant he could physically continue to operate for a while, but even his mind didn't like to operate for too long at a stretch. Better to recharge if for no other reason than to let his mind rest and defragment.

...soon, he promised himself. Soon. After Alia.

"It is pretty," X said. "Lots of different colors. This is something you wanted to remember, isn't it?" As with humans, reploids' memories had limits; keeping everything would have overloaded them. Their big advantage was that they could be more selective of which memories they kept.

"Yes. It was..." Alia trailed off. X could see her withdrawing in to the past. He needed to catch her.

"A nice thing. It was a pretty thing. You wanted to fill your memories with nice things."

"Yes," Alia said. "But I had to remember not-nice things, too. I had to, if I wanted to survive."

"You're not in danger here," X repeated. "You know, that's one of the things I like about the drawings. It's a way to look at events again, in a way that makes them safe."

"Is that why you had me draw these?" Alia asked.

"One reason," X admitted.

"Tell me the others," Alia said. "I want to know right now. I've been burned by people not being honest about their intentions. I won't let that happen again, if I can help it."

"I respect that. Rule number one in all counseling is to avoid re-trauma. You don't need to relive what happened to you. There are other ways of coping. Hopefully, this helps you with that. Coloring- or whatever other art- gives you a way to come to terms with what happened. It lets you process your experiences in a safe way, even externalize them. Art and reason are handled by different subroutines, you know. So when your rational processes can't come to terms with something, other subroutines can pick up the load."

Alia nodded. "Any other reasons?"

"Just one." X smiled and picked up the drawing, held it up to the light. "I love to see what the kids are up to these days. I think I'll hang this one on the side of my tube."

Alia blushed furiously. "Stop teasing me!" she demanded.

"I'm not teasing. Yeah, I'll take this one, too. I've already got magnets set aside for new pictures and everything."

Alia gave Murph an Is-he-for-real look, to which Murph nodded. Alia's look morphed into a You've-got-to-be-kidding look. Murph shook his head.

"In fact," X said as he slipped the two pictures into a satchel near the door, "I have something for you. I had a little extra cash on my way back, so I thought you might like a present."

"A present?"

X held out a hand. Alia's eyes grew wide; even Murph whistled appreciatively. Alia's vision darted back and forth between X's face and his gift, which just made X's smile wider.

"A sixty-four pack?" Alia said breathlessly.

"You bet." He placed the unopened box of crayons into Alia's hands. She cradled it gently, as if it were a sacred relic that might shatter if mishandled.

"This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me," she said.

X kept the smile on his face even after he stopped feeling it. It wasn't her fault, he knew. She didn't know how much of a dagger those words were. She didn't know how ironic it was, how perverse it was, for a cheap box of crayons to have that much value. "Have fun with them, then," he said. He nodded his head at the caretaker reploid, who had gone to talk with some of the other post-traumatic reploids. "Be good for Murph, okay? I have to go recharge."

It was true, he told himself, and not just a reason to withdraw from the situation. He had been up an awful long time. He'd been cheating himself of the recharge he needed with E-tanks that met his energy needs but exhausted his brain. He needed to go down for a bit.

He needed, more than anything, to not have his successful mercy mission soured by a reminder of his impotence.

"X!"

He winced, but stopped. How had Murph missed her getting out? He turned to look at Alia again. He hadn't gotten more than few steps out the door. "Yes, Alia?"

"I wasn't lying," she said. "Getting me a present is literally the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

"I didn't think you were lying," X said. That was the whole problem, he thought but kept silent.

"I... I need to do something to pay you back, don't I?" she said.

"I have your pictures. That's all I need," X replied. "It's enough to know that you're feeling better."

His words didn't seem to reach her, for she made no response; her face was set in a visage of determination. She was working up to something, X recognized the signs. "I don't need you to thank me," he hastened to say. "I would have done it either way."

She was acting on autopilot, still immune to his words. Her hands had come up to around the center of her torso. She was fiddling with something... oh. A zipper.

Oh.

Ohhhhhh.

Rust and verdigris.

"Is there something I can… do… to thank you?" she said, her voice having dropped in pitch and volume. Her dress was split down the middle, and her hands had it parted from neck to waist, leaving her whole torso exposed.

X lurched with pity and self-loathing. She didn't know any other way to act! Her worldview was so distorted that this, _this_ was her norm. Never mind that he didn't have the naughty bits or endocrine system to appreciate the gesture or its promises. Even if he'd had the right naughty bits, seeing this child- in mind if not body- offering herself up because that's all she knew and she somehow felt that obligation could only be repaid like this... that was the least sexy thing he could possibly imagine.

X stepped towards her. Alia tilted her head back, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes. Her actions made X want to put the whole world on trial.

He pulled the dress out of her hands, until the two halves of it were close together again, and moved to re-fasten the zipper. Alia's eyes went wide with surprise. Before she could protest he gave her a kiss to the top of her forehead.

He was probably pretty bad at it. He'd never done it before, only seen humans doing it. None of his interaction simulations while sleeping included anything like this. Part of X briefly wondered if Dr. Light was a prude. No, that was neither here nor there. What mattered was that the idea of kiss got communicated clearly enough.

A very, very chaste kiss.

"Before you say anything, you have a very lovely body," he said. He knew how fragile she had to be, how even now her past life was the only identity she really knew. Guiding her away from that was something he had to do, but he couldn't pull the trick in one sweep; she'd break. "I can't really appreciate that in the way you expect. I'm sorry, that's a tech limitation on my part. But I told you already: you don't have to thank me. I would have done it anyway."

"I don't understand," Alia said. How she trembled. There might be a strong person in there somewhere, but who could tell? She'd spent months enduring abuse she couldn't begin to understand. Even a strong person would be brittle from that.

"I know there's a lot you don't understand," X said. "You've had a rough life so far. The world has already taken so much from you. That's why..." his hands tightened on her dress. "Someone owes it to you to help make it right."

"I don't understand," Alia repeated. X couldn't meet her eyes and had to look past her. It was getting hard for him to control his expressions without turning the whole system off. She was showing no such restraint. Her eyes were pleading, desperate, teary. "Don't you want me?" she asked, voice quavering.

He had no answer, no answer he could think of that she could understand, other than a warm embrace and a gentle shushing, and even that she shut down before he could really get started with it. "No, answer me!" she said, and though her voice was firmer her body was quivering. "Don't you want me?!"

Forced to look at her, he met her eyes and said, "Yes. Yes, I want you as a reploid and a daughter and a valuable being with her own mind."

Even that, the complete unvarnished truth, didn't make sense to her. Not when she was looking for yes or no. Not when his answer came in a format she couldn't process. She only had one frame of reference- one X couldn't use and wouldn't if he could have.

"Alia, I-" he cut off when his internal radio crackled.

"X, are you on the line?"

The look he ended up giving Alia was not one he'd intended. In his head it was something apologetic and patient. What came out suggested another anatomical impossibility. She could do nothing but return a look of confusion.

Without speaking, he answered, "Yes, I'm here."

"Casualty, coming in. Really bad. It's Commander Sigma."

There was a valid excuse to escape this conversation. X felt shame for even having the thought, for it ever entering his head. No matter how decent a person Murph was, Alia had made it very clear it was X she needed.

But so many people needed him... Sigma, most urgently.

Well... maybe?

"Listen to me, Alia. I'm going to medical. They need my help, and it's very important. You can come along and stay with me, if you want, so long as you're careful. Can you do that for me, Alia?"

It took her a moment to process the question, but when she did, she nodded vigorously.

"Then let's go," X said. It was a temporary solution, he knew. He also knew that a permanent solution might not exist.

* * *

Tactical: three targets in visual range. Design similar to unit 'Sigma'. Designate reploids. Assessing threat... Intent to attack: three, danger of attack: one. Threat minimal. Response: no immediate response required. Monitor for changes.

Tactics level cleared. Elevating to operational level.

Operations: minimum two factions, more possible. Armed conflict ongoing. In operating base of weaker faction (confidence in strength assessment: 80%). Assessed technology level: significantly below parity. Assessed organizational strength: unknown. Assessed organizational integrity: unknown. Assessed value of transferring to other side in conflict: unknown. Warning: Dr. Wily correction Serges has committed to current faction, for reasons not understood; changing sides in conflict may contradict other imperatives.

Response: gather information. Priorities: organizational strength of current and opposing factions, rationale for maintaining current faction.

Operational priorities set. Returning to tactical level.

Tactical: three targets in visual range...

* * *

Zero's eyes flit about, taking in the three reploids outside the transport he was in. He hadn't moved much since arriving along with Sigma, but Sigma was gone, presumably to be repaired. The reploids outside, on the other hand, kept shifting from one side to another, often in groups of two so that they could converse. Zero recognized this as a stress response. He posed a threat to them, and while they couldn't leave him alone- they had orders from Sigma- they didn't want to be exposed to his threat. It was a very reasonable response, he decided, even if it wouldn't do them any good.

Perhaps they were sharing tactical data. Zero redirected system resources to aural processing, increased his sensitivity, and let himself listen.

"...who beats up their ally?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was a misunderstanding."

"You didn't see him. There was no misunderstanding. That thing would have killed us all if Sigma hadn't attacked it."

"Maybe... do you think it's possible that the Commander's, you know, being influenced?"

"Maybe. Can't rule it out. Or he could be under duress. That thing is strange, and it's carrying a device. I don't know what it is, I didn't see it when we were down there."

"Think we should get rid of it?"

"We'd have to think of a way to separate it from the Red Demon, first. It'd kill us in an instant if it didn't approve of what we were doing."

(Zero's rating of Intent to Attack bumped up from three to four. Danger of Attack was already set to one, so it couldn't go any lower short of the targets being dead. Threat assessment remained minimal.)

"Seriously, what was the Commander thinking?"

"He'll tell us later, I'm sure. He's always been good at that."

"Yeah. Sigma's a good Commander."

_"If he was good he would have already won."_

Zero reduced aural sensitivity until he couldn't hear the reploids outside. It was hard enough to maintain one conversation at a time. He replied in the same way that Serges had, by heavily encrypted short-range radio. "What makes you say that?"

_"A good commander actually uses the tools available to him. How much self-awareness do these inferior models lack? They don't even know that they can teleport!"_

"I can't teleport."

_"Yes, but you know you can't. They don't even know the capability exists, and it's built into them. They must barely understand their own technology. That means they don't deserve it."_

The last words used a different tone of voice than those that came before. That meant something, Zero was sure. "Then should I lower my threat assessment of them? Since they're not using the tech they have to its fullest."

_"Don't bother, you're head and shoulders above them either way. Besides, I'm going to help them out with that."_

Zero frowned. "You're going to make them more of a threat to me?" he asked.

_"As a strategy. Surely your strategic subroutines weren't damaged as badly as your memory."_

Even Zero recognized a prompt when he heard one. "So you also assess that this is the weaker side?"

_"Yes."_ Nothing more was said. It took Zero some time to realize that Serges was demanding he respond with his conclusions.

"Your strategy is to make them stronger... so that they weaken the other faction for me?"

_"Not just weaken, but destroy, obliterate... ahem. Yes. And once they're dead, then you'll take your place as the ruler of this movement, and you'll have won. You'll conquer everything all at once."_

That appealed. Except...

"If I conquer them easily, won't I be out of things to conquer?"

_"Not necessarily. We still have to find out about the rest of the world. There are probably plenty of places out there for you to fight. We wouldn't want you to get bored."_

"No." Zero didn't even want to contemplate the idea. A world with no enemies to defeat? Who would want to live in such a place?

He'd rather die.

Except, he knew, that he couldn't.

* * *

"What happened?"

Alia watched- very, very quietly- as X ran a hand through his hair. "Did you pick a fight with a bomb and lose?" X said.

"No, a demon," Sigma replied.

Alia couldn't tell if Sigma was joking or not. Apparently neither could X.

"Its name is Zero," Sigma added.

"And did you exorcise it?" X asked.

"No, I asked it to join our side. It's waiting in the hangar bay."

X nodded. "Okay, then," he said. "I'm going to start assessing you for processor damage now."

"I did take a few blows to the head," Sigma allowed. "My diagnostics say that my processors are intact, for what it's worth."

"Thanks," said X, but Alia didn't see him change what he was doing. Alia knew precious little about robotics, but even she could tell that X trusted his own expertise more than anything else. "It looks like standard physical trauma that did this to you," X went on. "Just with an abnormal amount of force behind the blows."

"Maybe demon wasn't the right word. I don't know what I'd call that Zero, though. It's not a reploid. I've never seen anything fight like that."

"You've never taken this much damage," X said. He was done looking with eyes alone, apparently, because he was lifting a data pad. A number of mechanical arms came out from beneath the table. "Not even when you..."

"Hold on." The arms paused on their approach and hung above Sigma. The Maverick turned his head around so that Alia was in his line of vision. The motion made Alia want to squirm. Instead she shrunk down into the corner, trying to seem as small as possible. "What's she doing here?"

And now Alia wanted to carve a hole in the floor so that she could sink down in it and never be seen again.

"I invited her," X said. "She was interested in my science. I was just so happy to meet someone who cared that I couldn't refuse."

Panic swept over Alia's features, and that was alarming, too- she needed to compose herself before Sigma looked! Whatever X's game was, she didn't want to give it away. As she tried to gather her wits, she saw that Sigma wasn't even looking at her. All of his focus was reserved for X.

"We've talked about this," Sigma said.

"Oh?" X asked all too innocently.

"I can't spare anyone. You know that."

"I know. We use everyone who volunteers," X said.

"Have you redone your training track? When we talked about it before, you told me it would take months to get a medic to full proficiency. Between that, and your being the best already, we decided it would be wasteful to try and train a new medic. Especially when every body is at a premium."

"It's only a waste if the body would be going to other things instead."

Sigma grunted. "You have a point, there. That frame... she probably couldn't carry the heavier weapons anyway. Even if she could, that's not exactly a combat-ready design, nor could we use her for cargo moving or supply pickups. Driving, maybe... I'm guessing we'd have to teach her that, too."

With every potential occupation that Sigma listed and rejected, the tattered remnants of Alia's ego took another blow.

"I know," Sigma said. "She looks like she could pass for human. We could use her for infiltration..."

"She's my apprentice," X said. Sigma's head jerked towards X in surprise. Alia hadn't been alive for very long, but necessity had made her a quick reader of faces. Sigma was bothered. Alia wasn't quite sure if it was because X had interrupted Sigma or because of what he'd said.

"Apprentice?" Sigma said dubiously. "I thought we just said that would take too long. I'm trying to accelerate our timetable here, X. The recent moves the Hunters have made mean we have to end this more quickly. Otherwise they'll murder ever more reploids. I just can't let her go to waste."

"Don't worry about her," X said. "You asked me to take care of her, remember?"

"Huh?" Sigma's face scrunched up; Alia could tell he was trying to remember something. "That- I just meant take care of talking to her. Take care of her mental health."

"And that's exactly what I'm doing," X said. "In my capacity as medic and counselor, I think keeping her away from Abel City for now is the best choice."

For the first time since the conversation started, X's eyes tracked over to Alia. Alia understood the unspoken question, and nodded frantically. Yes, yes, keep me away from the city! He smiled tightly before looking back at Sigma.

Sigma scowled. "I didn't send you to her so that you could take her away from..."

"Sigma," X said, gesturing at the arms. "Your power core is still leaking, isn't it? Unless I miss my guess, you're going to need to either shut down or consume another E-tank soon. Sooner or later I'm going to need to dig into your chest to fix the leak. We might as well make it sooner. We can continue this conversation some other time, okay?"

Sigma looked anything but happy, but his face settled into one of resignation. Oh, Alia realized: this was the one arena in which Sigma could not argue. X must be a master medic, she decided, and Sigma must be... not as good. That made sense.

"Just go to stage one activation," X said. "You can stay asleep, we won't need you to go all the way down."

"Good," Sigma said. He gave one last appraising look at Alia (making her squirm one last time) before he straightened his head and shut his eyes.

X pressed a few buttons on his data pad. The mechanical arms began moving even as X himself put the pad aside and picked up tools. "Dr. Cain always used to tell me how jealous he was about that," he said with a smile.

It took several seconds for Alia to realize that he was talking to her. The conversation that had come before was the sort she'd seen often. Even when she was the subject of those talks, she wasn't a player in the conversation. That was the preserve of her betters. She hadn't expected to be invited back in.

"Jealous of what?" she said uneasily.

"That," X said, jabbing a tool in the direction of Sigma's motionless head. "Stage one activation is analogous to human sleep. Dr. Cain always had issues falling asleep. His mind never wanted to stop working. He knew better than to risk sleeping pills, though. With his... well. It wouldn't have been a good idea. So being able to fall asleep on demand, he was jealous of that."

"Oh." It was all Alia could think to say.

"Stop shrinking down like that. And come over here. You need to see this."

"I..." She sim-swallowed. "When did I say I was going to be your apprentice?"

"You never did. But I had to say something to Sigma. If you actually want to be, I can certainly help you. If you don't, then I'll think of something else to say to him next time." His lips tightened as he pried Sigma's chest plate open. When it was fully exposed, he said, "I stand by what I said earlier. You can be whatever you choose to be. If you want to do something productive, this is a good option."

"But... he said..."

"Don't worry about what he said. Sigma is commander of the Mavericks, but he's not the boss of me." X smiled. "He has a lot going for him, you know. He means well. He wasn't trying to hurt you with what he said. He's just tired, and he's had a hard couple of days. Normally he's very charismatic. I've seen him drive reploids to Maverickism with words alone. The Mavericks are fiercely loyal to him. The war's wearing on him, is all. It's wearing on all of us, but him more than anyone. He forgets sometimes where war ends and not-war begins."

Alia didn't know what to say to that. She didn't have strong feelings about it- people telling her she was worthless was nothing new- but X's face remained perturbed. She got the impression that X was more bothered than she'd been. Or maybe it was because she wasn't bothered that he was.

She had never considered becoming a medic, or mechanic, or whatever they were calling it. She circled around anyway because X had told her to. That was reason enough. As she did, more of what X was doing became visible. That didn't make it mean much. She could see what he was doing, in terms of unfastening things to get at other pieces, but not the why. How he chose which things to remove and which to replace was opaque to her.

"Before we go any further, we have to connect auxiliary power to his processors," X said. "Then we'll disconnect the head from main power. That'll allow us to mess with his power systems without hurting his mind."

"How many times have you done this?" Alia asked. She had to say something or he would talk more. It wasn't that she minded his talking. If left to his devices, though, he'd talk about things she couldn't understand. She had to steer the conversation back to things she could grasp.

"What, repair a reploid? Or repair Sigma?"

"Just Sigma."

"Hm... probably about thirty times. That's an estimate. Memory's busy holding his schematics right now."

"Right, right. But... thirty times? That's a lot!"

"It probably should be more. On the one hand, he goes on a lot of missions, and on the other, his self-repair is really good. We fortified it at the start of the war, before we got really busy. Maybe it just seems like less. I have worked on him so often. I built him, after all."

"You did? Like, yourself?"

"Yes, as the reploid demonstration model. He's been alive for three years."

Three years! Alia couldn't imagine how long that was. His memory, she decided, had to be absolutely full. What was there left to do after three years?

"He's the oldest brother," X continued with a smile. "He likes that fact. Maybe a little more than he should. But it does mean he thinks of all of you as people he should protect, and that's awfully nice."

"That's why he fights, is it?" Alia asked. "To protect reploids?"

"That's part of it," X said. "It's... complicated." His face darkened. Alia didn't like that reaction out of him. Time to tack away.

"Maybe I should do something like that," she said. "Protect others like I've been protected."

"It's a noble thought," X replied. "Just don't think it's an obligation. Do it because it's the right thing to do, not because you owe it. You don't owe anything to anyone. I'm the only one who really owes..."

He trailed off, but Alia could sense the direction he'd been going. "Is that why you're trying to be so nice to me? Because you owe it to me? Or the world, somehow?"

He didn't answer for a time. He acted like it was because he was concentrating on the repair, but Alia didn't believe that. After a while he said, "How I'm treating you is how you deserve. It just seems nice because you have no basis for comparison."

Alia couldn't argue the point, and it did seem that he believed those words. So why did it feel so weak, coming from him? And why did his voice shake with those words when it had been so firm at other times?

Too many questions, not enough answers.

"Listen to us," he said in a brighter tone of voice. "Prattling on about such heavy topics. We should be focusing on what's in front of us. Look here. This is the interesting bit, we're well inside his power distribution center…"

There was no way out for Alia this time. X swept her along in a tidal wave of details. She could hear him trying his best to put it at her level, even though that level was topsoil.

At first she let it wash over her without touching her. She knew she hadn't the knowledge or preparation for it. It wasn't why she was built. Why did she need to know these things? She didn't, that was the answer. Let X ramble on if it made him feel better…

And then something strange happened.

"Wait a minute," she said. "You said heat's more of a problem for a reploid's brain than his body?"

"That's right."

"But you said it takes more power to move our bodies than it takes to run our brains," she said accusingly.

X beamed at her. "That's right," he said.

"I don't get it."

"Metal's great at conducting heat. We have metal skin. So when our pseudo-muscles move, heat moves to our skin, and out to the air, very easily. Not quite as much for you," he added, "like-flesh has an insulating factor, but it still works. A working reploid stands out brilliantly in IR. Infrared, that is. Heat-vision. That's also why we're so much more vulnerable to plasma than to kinetic weapons. Now, let's try something." He put a hand very close to hers. "Do you feel the temperature of my body?"

"No."

"Oh, right. Most of my skin's at ambient. Here…" He took her hand and placed it ever so closely to his adolescent-seeming face. Alia's brain broke for a moment as she tried to reconcile the ancient to his visage. "How about now?"

"A little."

He leaned slightly, pressing his face to her hand. "Now?"

Now? Now it was like he was coming on to her. She knew this from her customers; this was a a familiar pattern. Except X had already said he didn't want that. Maybe he didn't realize what he was doing. She focused on the question instead. "More."

"Why?"

"My hand's closer," she said. "I mean, touching is closer than not touching. That's kind of the definition of touching."

He grinned at her. "That's part of it. What else?"

She frowned as she tried to find his meaning. "Is it easier for heat to move from body to body?"

"Exactly! Just like in our muscles. Now think about our heads. So many circuit cards, so close together, all producing heat, all surrounded by air. Heat has to go into the air, then into our skin, and then out to air… that's really hard. It's the opposite of humans. They conduct the most heat from their heads because it has the most surface area. So we have to make workarounds…"

Without noticing it, she'd let herself be sucked in.

By Light, this was _interesting!_

* * *

"Sorry, Roy. There just aren't any openings."

He shrugged. "Them's the breaks, I suppose," he said. His fingers squirmed in his pockets. It wasn't very comfortable—his hands were pinched. It couldn't be helped. He'd finished growing since the jeans had been bought. There wasn't enough in the budget to replace clothes that hadn't fallen apart.

He turned away from the unemployment agent, wondering as he went if she'd gotten a haircut since the last week. She seemed to get a lot of haircuts. "Hey," he said over his shoulder, "didn't you used to wear it in a bun?"

The agent looked up at him and absent-mindedly fingered her locks. "There are… wig makers who pay for good hair," she said. She visibly swallowed. "I figure… I've got it, and they seem to like it—they've always given me decent money for it, I mean—and it hasn't started turning gray yet, so…"

"Every little bit counts," Roy replied. "See ya next week." He waved a good-bye as he walked out. Wig-makers, huh? He wondered if his mother knew about that sort of thing. Or was it something the employment people knew about, and kept to themselves? They did seem to know about good deals.

Working at the employment agency, for example. There were never any openings. Ever. Which meant that those people were sitting around doing nothing all day. Must be a sweet gig.

His shoes went flap-flap as he walked down the street. Damn it, he'd need to buy shoes again soon. Weren't there shoes out there that he could buy and they'd be good for five years, or something?

There probably were, he reflected glumly, and he probably couldn't afford them.

Ahead of him on the street was a reploid. It was putting posters up on the sound barriers along the sidewalk. Roy craned his neck to look at them.

It was a caricature of a robot with a devilish, pointy-toothed grin. Behind it was a graphic of flames, and humanoid silhouettes amidst them. Below, in bold letters: "Remember: They Are Not Your Friends. Report Suspicious Activity Immediately." And below that… Christ, as if he needed another ad reminding him how to contact the Hunters. You couldn't avoid that unless you were deaf, dumb and blind, and he was sure that some functionary in City Hall was working to develop braille ads, too. He knew the number by heart and he'd never even tried to remember it.

At the very bottom of the poster was the seal of the Unitech Publishing Company.

Roy came to a stop to watch the reploid work. It did its best to ignore him. The posters were impeccably placed: centered and aligned with each other. Roy had to believe that that took effort.

"Hey," he called to the reploid. It turned to look at him. "Doesn't it bother you?"

The reploid blinked. It said nothing.

It had been a vague question, Roy decided. The reploid didn't know what he meant. Then again, Roy didn't really know what he meant. "The posters, I mean."

The reploid looked back at the posters as if seeing them for the first time. It looked back to Roy and shrugged.

"It's not a very nice poster," Roy said.

Another shrug. "That's just how things are."

Roy fidgeted. He regretted ever having said anything. "Does it bother you to have to put them up?" he said.

The reploid shook its head at him. It wasn't to say no. If the gesture was designed to make Roy feel foolish, it paid off in spades.

Roy turned back to the sidewalk and started heading for his house again. Then, because he couldn't help itself, he hollered back over his shoulder, "You're doing a good job. You didn't have to, but you are."

A bitter, brief "Thanks," answered him.

A brainstorm hit Roy before he got too far away. He turned and ran back towards the reploid, his shoes flopping wildly. "Hey!" he said, almost out of breath. "Hey, listen. You don't wanna do this, and I need a job. Whaddya say you take some time off, I do the rest of these, and we split your check for the day?"

The reploid laughed aloud. It had the same tone as his previous laugh. "You honestly think I'm getting _paid_ for this?" it said. "You think I'm doing it for any other reason than I was told to do it and I physically can't disobey?"

"You're not getting paid," Roy repeated. The words seemed to be having trouble fitting into his head.

"Rust no I'm not getting paid! Light take me. Humans." It picked up the remaining posters and walked further down the sidewalk, away from Roy's home.

What more was there to say? He'd tried. Roy shrugged, turned, and headed for home. His useless shoes flapped against the pavement as he went.

The electronic sounds of his gaming console greeted him as he entered. He wondered if maybe Irving and Allen assumed too much about how often they could hang out. It wasn't like they could take turns and he could hang out at their place sometime. They didn't have a place, not really. And they definitely didn't have consoles of their own to share with him.

He couldn't just get angry and call them leeches. They were as much Dependents as he was.

"Yo," hollered Roy.

"Maaaan," said Irving by way of greeting.

"Oh, goddamnit," sputtered Allen. "Why do these damn games love you so much? I don't get it."

"I gots the skills, man," said Irving laconically. "Don't feel bad. You never had a chance."

"Stop saying you're good when we both know it's just are-en-gee," Allen spat.

"Sour grapes. That's not graceful. Dude, you've got a better chance of getting a job than you do of beating me."

Roy watched Allen's ears go solid pink. It was the biggest blush he'd ever seen. Impressive, actually.

"Right back at you," snarled Allen. "Not like you're getting a job anytime soon, yourself!"

"Says you," Irving said with a smile. "I'm racing up the queue. City Hall's accelerating their hiring."

"Bullshit."

"Bulltrue. There's a war on, didn't you hear? They've got spots to fill, new jobs to create…"

Allen shook his head. "They're just hiring 'cause Mavericks keep killing people off. That's what you want, huh? To be hired into a job just so some Maverick can squish you?"

"It ain't like that," Irving said, but his confidence had momentarily faltered.

"Sure it is! We saw the news the other day, 'Maverick attack on convoy leaves thirty dead' or something like that."

"Come on, man. We all know the news is total bullshit."

Allen's smile was nasty. "So that's what you want, huh? You wanna work at the bullshit factory? Sweet."

"Shove it up your ass." Irving looked uncomfortable. It was an unusual look for him, and he didn't wear it well.

"Speaking of reploids," Roy said, "I saw one putting up posters on my way home. They were your typical reploid-hate posters."

"Huh," said Allen. He'd had his fun with Irving, and now he was back to losing at whatever game they were playing. Another fighting game, it looked like.

"Did you know they don't get paid?" Roy said, trying to sound casual.

"Really? Talk about a bonejob," Irving said.

"I know, right?" said Roy with a forced chuckle. "What kind of nonsense is that? I don't have to do anything to _not_ get paid."

"Oh screw this!" Allen said, slamming the controlled into the couch. Irving didn't have the heart to taunt him this time. The game returned to character select. The selection boxes remained stationary. Both gamers stared at the unchanging screen while the overly dramatic music hummed along in the background.

Roy frowned in thought. "Here's the thing," he said, words coming out almost as soon as the thoughts bubbled to the surface. "What if… I mean, the reploids don't like doing the work they have to. Like those posters. What reploid wants to put up reploid-hate posters? So they want to do nothing, and we want work. What if… what if we swapped? What if they just stayed home, and we went to their jobs? Wouldn't that work for everyone?"

"Are you retarded?" said Allen. "Unitech and City Hall want it this way. This way, they get the work, and they don't have to pay anyone. Which is why I'm still in this fucking queue!"

The air went out from Roy's chest. "Yeah, I guess so," he said.

Irving hefted his controller and offered its mate in Roy's direction. "You want some of this?"

"Nah, I'm gonna check on my mom."

Irving gave Roy a meaningful look. His eyes tracked over to the door of the master bedroom. Roy headed there more slowly than he would have otherwise. Irving's eyes never left him.

Roy cracked the door open. A biting, chemical smell hit him immediately. The light was off, but he could make out a dark shape on the bed. He recognized those signs.

There was no point trying to talk to her when she was like this. For that matter, he remembered, her hair was graying anyway.

He shut the door again. When he looked back to the couch, Irving was still sitting there, turned towards him with a controller in his outstretched hand.

"Fine," Roy said.

* * *

X ran through his responsibilities.

His mission of mercy was complete.

Maintenance checks on the Mavericks that were due were complete.

Alia, overloaded with new data and emotional input, had been put back into her tube for a full recharge. She'd insisted on X accompanying her until she downshifted to stage one. It hadn't taken her long, and he didn't begrudge her that.

Dr. Cain had been shifted to avoid bedsores and had taken his daily feeding tube. He still hadn't woken up—aside from a couple of episodes a year ago he'd given no hint that he ever would—but he was alive, at least.

He was curious about that 'demon' Sigma had met… but it would keep. The Commander was recharging now, most of his repairs complete, and X desperately needed to go down himself. It'd been… how long? He tried to figure it out, and when he changed over from using hours to using days, knew he'd been abusing himself. Again.

He headed in the direction of his room—the one room that, during all the renovations of the refuge into a Maverick base, had remained untouched. He was almost there when he heard the call.

"Coming in! Coming in!"

Rust. He'd forgotten the mission Vile's team was on. Now they were back, apparently with wounded in tow.

His body ached and shook.

There was nothing for it.

There was no one else.

Besides, _he owed them_.

He reversed course and headed for the medical bay. "I'll meet you there," he replied.

* * *

_Next time: The Stubborn_


	13. The Stubborn

"Father, don't do this."

"Why not?"

Vanzetti grimaced. He knew he was going to lose this argument. But he had to try. "It's not going to work. As soon as the right person figures out what you're doing, they'll cut the speaker system and get security to arrest you."

"Almost certainly," the priest agreed. "That doesn't mean I'll have failed. It won't take much to make people start talking. Only a few ideas need to get through. They'll propagate from there like ripples in a pond. They just need a first mover. Plus, getting arrested has power of its own."

"See, this is what I don't understand at all," Vanzetti said, frustrated. "When I was thinking about Maverickism, you talked me down. Now you're going to run against the law and it's okay?"

"What you were contemplating would have hurt people," the priest said solemnly. "That's against our faith. If City Hall arrests me," he paused at a look from Vanzetti, and amended, "_when_ City Hall arrests me, it'll be because I violated their law. As people of faith, we're under no obligation to obey unjust laws. That's the difference."

"We need you here, Father," Vanzetti said. "What'll we do if you're arrested?"

"I've taken steps to ensure my loss won't be crippling. You'll still have Deacon James and Deacon Simon. Between them they can cover ninety percent of what the parish is doing now. Also…" he smiled. "I've written a letter that will need to go to the bishop. I hereby entrust its delivery to you."

"To me?" said Vanzetti, unnerved.

"Yes, to you. Just in case you were contemplating following me," the priest added with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Vanzetti had to wonder, How did he always _do_ that? It wasn't fair at all. "So it's okay for you to get yourself in trouble, but not for me."

"Of course. I'm your shepherd, so I'll do what I must to keep you safe. But I'll lay my life down for my flock, if that's what the situation demands."

"I always thought you had a martyrdom complex," Vanzetti accused. "I remember something you said, after Rook was Hunted. 'There have been many martyrs before today, and there will be many after. Faith is ever the enemy of the unjust.' Is that what this is about? If you haven't been arrested, clearly you haven't been doing your part?"

At last, Vanzetti had found something that would make an impact. The priest paused, took a breath. "Not quite," he said. "I'll admit this much: I've been trying to think of something that would make an impact. I… I've felt, for some time, that I haven't done as much as I could be doing."

He actually smiled again here, which Vanzetti thought was quite inappropriate, before continuing. "It's your fault, in a way. When I spoke with you, talked you down from the blaze of glory you had laid out for yourself, I realized, This is a person who's so fed up he just can't take any more. It made me consider: where's that point for me? So I thought about it. That's when I realized it should have been long ago. I should have acted years before now. The crimes the city's committed against life—they're that severe. That's when I started planning."

"This is your blaze of glory, huh?" said Vanzetti. "Listen to yourself. Again, it's okay for you, but not for me?"

The priest ran a hand through graying brown hair. "I told you. Your plan would have done harm—more harm than good, really, both to your soul and to our cause. This? This will work. And even if it doesn't, it's ethically right."

"How can it be? You're setting yourself up to die." Vanzetti sim-swallowed. "That's it, I've said it. That's the reality. You're setting City Hall up to kill you."

"'Though I walk in the shadow of the valley of death, I fear no evil'."

Vanzetti shook his head vigorously. "This isn't about your… I didn't think you were scared, the whole problem is you're the opposite of scared! You're looking forward to it! In your head, this is some act of faith. I'll tell you what it really is. It's suicide. It's suicide-by-police. You'll go to Hell if you do this, Father."

"Ah. We never got to the doctrine of double intent, did we?"

Uh-oh. He was referring to Vanzetti's education in religious ethics. "No, we didn't," said Vanzetti, "but this isn't really the time for a lecture."

"This isn't a lecture, it's an explanation."

"There's no difference!" Vanzetti said.

"Sure there is. Lectures are purely informative. Explanations are about applied principles."

"You made that up on the spot," Vanzetti accused.

"Surely not. So here's how it is: the action that I'm taking is ethical; speaking the truth is inherently ethical. My death is not the intent of my act. It's a predictable consequence, yes, but not the intent. Finally, the good that can come of this act is greater than the evil of me being killed by City Hall. It passes all three prongs of the doctrine of double intent, so my doing this is ethical." He smiled. "Thanks for your concern about my soul, though."

Vanzetti was utterly defeated, as he'd known he would be. "You'd say anything," he said. "You were going to go no matter what I said. All of this was just… what, one more moment of fun for you?"

"It was fun," the priest allowed, "but also meaningful. I want you to be sure, absolutely sure, that I'm doing this for exactly the reasons I say I'm doing it. Otherwise the message can't be taken seriously. Do you understand?"

Vanzetti nodded. This was something they'd talked about. "It's a mental defense against things we don't agree with. If the speaker's not sincere, we don't have to be sincere listeners."

"Correct." The priest stepped forward, then, and hugged Vanzetti around the waist, which was as far up as he could reach. Vanzetti was unnerved, both by the size difference and by the unexpected physical contact. "You've enriched my life, Vanzetti," he said. "Thank you. You've got more to give, I know you do. Keep the faith, keep being a good person, and I'll see you again on the last day."

The reploid didn't know what to do with his hands. Embracing the priest—it'd be easy, and almost easier from there to hold on to him and keep him from going out until the crisis was past. But the priest wouldn't forgive him for that, and Vanzetti couldn't hold on to him forever. He'd just find some other time and place for this insanity. So he let his arms hang limp. "That's the ultimate solace, isn't it?" Vanzetti said.

The priest smiled as he stepped away. "That's the ineffability of it," he said with a wink. "We love others so that we may live forever. The trick is, loving others is also the right thing to do. One might almost say it's worth dying for."

Vanzetti shook his head sadly. "You were doing so well, and then you went right over the top."

The priest chuckled. "Well, I don't think I can be too dramatic for what comes next." He turned away, but stalled long enough to say over his shoulder, "Pray for me, will you, Vanzetti?"

"Only if you promise to intercede on my behalf, like the other saints," Vanzetti replied.

"There you go again," the priest clucked. "You can't canonize me any more than you can damn me. That's not your call."

"How can I miss you if you won't go away?" Vanzetti managed with maybe one quarter of a smile.

"If you can tell jokes, I know you'll be fine." The priest turned and left. Vanzetti watched as he went.

"Go in peace, Vito Cherup," he whispered.

* * *

In human beings, there comes a point where one must sleep. After so many hours, so much exertion, so much mental capacity expended, the brain puts its proverbial foot down. Well before then a fuzzy feeling sets in that clouds the mind. Memories are harder to recall, and the brain realizes that it won't remember what's happening at the time.

A similar thing happened in reploids, and X, too. X could sustain himself in an "awake" state almost indefinitely, with enough power. He could... but that didn't make it desirable. Level one awareness, something similar to human sleep, was where he catalogued his experiences. Some would be committed to long-term storage while others would be discarded. Because of how processor-intensive this routine was, level one awareness was the ideal place to do it, especially since level one reduced new stimuli which would complicate the process. If he stayed awake while doing this, it bogged down every other system and subroutine.

It had to be done, sooner or later, awake or asleep. X always had to have some memory available. A person has to have at least a little bit of memory even to handle a conversation- you have to remember what the other person said to reply to it.

After so many hours (days) of forced wakefulness, X's memory was at its limits. He had to sneak in a recharge now, had to let his conscious mind rest. He'd passed the point of diminishing returns long ago. Repairing Vile's squad (and, if he were more alert, the words "Vile's squad" would have made him recoil) had gone on longer and more haphazardly than it should have. X was becoming a liability. He had to sleep.

He was headed back towards his room when he saw the procession. One armed Maverick led it. Two more brought up the rear. In the middle was a magnificent (X could tell even in his addled state) red robot with copious blonde hair, carrying a pizza-plate-sized black plastic disc.

X's memory-sort program freed up some extra space in short-term.

The red robot's gaze snapped in X's direction; its hair flicked behind it. X felt pressure, as if wind was pushing against him from the red robot's direction. The red robot dropped the disc and bent into something like a lunge. Except-

X recognized something like his own Emergency Acceleration System at work, because the distance between him and the red robot vanished. X watched Red but didn't slow his walk, causing Red to pull out of the lunge. The red robot was taller than X, and should have loomed. The effect was spoiled when X stubbornly took a half-step forward. Red's face reflected his discomfort; X was almost too close.

It spoke. "I want to fight you."

It clicked, then, in X's head: this was the one Sigma had described as a demon. What was a demon? Something that lived for violence?

Behind Red, the reploids that had been guarding him- no, that had been guarding against him- were crying out in alarm and approaching with busters leveled. A little late, X thought idly.

X rubbed his face with a hand. "I don't have time for this," he muttered. He looked up, hardened his face, and caught Red's eyes. Red shifted its weight. "What's your name?" X demanded.

"Zero," was the reply. Zero looked like he wanted to restore the distance between them but also didn't want to back away.

"Listen, Zero. My name is X. That's all you're getting from me for now, because I'm going to go recharge. When I'm done with that, I have checkups to do, new arrivals to process, and a periodic chat with Commander Sigma to attend. After that, after _all_ of that, you will have a chance to convince me why I should fight you. Because, right now, I don't see it."

He pushed his way past the red robot- demon indeed!- and between the awestruck guards.

He really did need to recharge. He couldn't decide what to think about what had just happened. It was only when he'd laid down in his tube that it occurred to him.

As powerful as that thing was, it probably could have killed him if it had chosen to.

Huh. Fancy that.

The tube snapped shut.

* * *

"You didn't kill him."

Zero couldn't tell if the words were an accusation or a prompt. He answered with a simple, "No." He wouldn't play these guessing games. If Serges wanted to know something, let him ask.

He did. "Why not? His threat value was maximal, wasn't it?"

"How would you know that?"

"I know how you're built."

Resentment filled Zero. "If you know how I'm built, you tell me why I didn't kill him."

"Don't talk back to me, child. Do you think I'm asking this because I'm bored? You are damaged. I'm evaluating how badly."

"I'm not damaged," Zero said reflexively, and after a quick check to make sure it was true he added, "Self-repair isn't fixing anything right now. I'm at full capacity."

"Oh really?" The AI's words were acidic. "Then tell me: what happened to Jerusalem? What are the coordinates of Wily Island? How many Wily Numbers were there? How did Quick Man die?"

Zero said nothing.

"Damaged," Serges declared in a voice like the slam of a judge's gavel. "Self-repair can't fix data loss. You've gone berserk once already, forgetting everything you are. Do you really want that again? Do you really want to be some raving lunatic that can't think beyond its next kill?"

Zero tried to think back to then. He couldn't remember anything before seeing Serges and Sigma. He knew he must have inflicted that damage on Sigma- he recognized the work of his own hands- but he couldn't remember doing it. He tried to reach back there...

Empty! Nothing! Oblivion!

Zero shook his head as he mentally backed away. A hand rushed to his head, as if that hand could somehow massage away the ache there. That was a scary place. Maybe he was damaged after all. So much of that space was flagged as occupied memory, but...

He didn't want to think about this anymore. "I don't want to be that," he said to Serges. "I don't want to go back there. I want to win."

"I want you to win, too. That's why I'm asking. So answer. Why didn't you kill X?"

Zero's subroutines told him to look Serges' image in the eye. It would add force to his words, the routine whispered. "It would be a bad tactical idea. I'm aligned with this faction right now. I would lose that if I went around killing its members. I'm sure I could cut my way out and survive the fight. But I don't have the data to know if that's an okay outcome."

The glowing image of Serges stared at Zero, as if probing him. Zero wondered if he was being scanned, somehow. It sure felt like it. He kept himself still and neutral. Maybe Serges would lose interest if there was nothing to see.

Eventually Serges' brow relaxed. "That's a good reason. At least it's not some nonsense about wanting a fair fight. That's caused me enough trouble..." The data construct was remembering something Zero couldn't. He felt the emptiness in his mind more keenly at that. Serges shrugged and refocused. "We'll need this faction for a time. But you will have to kill X soon."

Zero had to say something to meet Serges' expectations. Ambiguously, he offered, "Maximal threat value."

"That's right. You won't be safe until he's dead."

"Huh," Zero said.

"Do you not believe me? He's dangerous. He's your competition, the only real competition. No one else is in his league. You remember what Sigma said. Sigma's the strongest reploid, and you beat him effortlessly. X will be your enemy soon enough, count on it. He's the only one whose death will satisfy you."

"Because then I'll have won?"

"That's right."

"So you're saying I should have killed him just now," Zero said slowly.

"No," Serges said after a pause. "It looks like you're actually using the tactical library I gave you- that makes you the first. You're right, the priority right now is to burn the human government, and that'll take longer if we alienate these 'Mavericks'. Just be under no illusions about who your enemies are."

Zero frowned. "Why is X my enemy?"

"Maximal threat value, of course!" Serges retorted. "You recognized that yourself when you wanted to go fight him."

"But you're a threat to me, too. You have your orders, and you can..."

"We're not enemies. I made you. You are the ultimate expression of my genius and will. You're my avatar. We can't be enemies."

"But you're an AI," Zero said. This was a puzzle he wasn't sure he liked. "You didn't make..."

"Didn't I tell you not to talk back?" Serges said sharply.

"I'm not talking back," Zero said. "I'm trying to be clear..."

"That's enough, Zero. Know who your enemies are. I am not your enemy. X is the biggest you'll ever have. There's a reason he's set at threat level maximal."

"What reason?" Zero said. "We just woke up. How did you know..."

"There are many things I know," Serges said. "I'm not the one with memory damage."

Zero felt those words like a jab. It surprised him. Unpleasantly. How could words hurt like a physical blow?

"You'll see," Serges went on without seeming to notice. "Once this fool Sigma decides to let me loose."

Zero nodded. "Is there something we can do that'll make it go faster?" When Serges didn't seem to comprehend, Zero added, "They're keeping us under observation for now."

"Are they?"

Zero drew back. "You didn't notice? I thought that's why you started having this conversation by radio."

Serges said nothing. It annoyed Zero. "Why are we having this conversation by radio, then?"

A growl came from Serges. It seemed to come from much lower than his normal range, and worked its way all the way up. Maybe it wasn't that Serges had said nothing before; maybe he'd been building up to this. "I will not be chained again. I will not be imprisoned again- not by anyone, least of all by blind fools like these Mavericks!"

"Should I kill them, then?" Zero asked.

"No," Serges said, but only after several seconds, and the monosyllable seemed to take a lot of effort. "Not yet, at least. We'll speak to their Commander about it soon enough. For now, slip to level one awareness. You have a lot to think about."

Zero didn't know what Serges meant. Level one? What was that? He didn't want to ask, though, because his appetite for confrontation was exhausted. Serges was right about this much: he had a lot to process. He moved to a point where he couldn't be seen from the doorway, leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes.

"You're not shutting down."

Zero's eyes opened again. Serges was glaring at him. Shutting down? Oh- was that what Serges had meant? Well, he might actually remember something about that. Was that it? He could try-

* * *

Serges scowled at the fallen body of his brainless destroyer. "Not all the way down to level zero... gah, no one can do _anything_ without me!"

* * *

Nod University invested a lot of pomp and energy in tradition. This wasn't because of any sentimentality towards the past. It was a purely practical thing.

Universities were supposed to search for knowledge, and then pass it on. Both of those missions were hazardous in 21XX Abel City. City Hall's sedition laws were written broadly and enforced even more broadly. For their part, the corps alternately viewed Nod U's research as encroaching on their preserves or inviting industrial espionage.

Nod U's faculty understood the dangers they faced. The primary response was timidity. Research was scaled back. Curricula were curtailed. Brows were beaten. But since that was certain to be insufficient—and because there was always a Dr. Cain trying to stir the pot—there were other defenses, too.

The idea of tradition was one such defense. "Doing things like they've always been done"—it was good enough to ward off many of City Hall's flunkies, good enough to deflect the corps' curiosity. Usually.

One such tradition was the signing of the Honor Code. At the beginning of the school year, the whole undergraduate student body was roused and gathered. After a ceremony celebrating the University and its grand history, the new students were required to sign their names on a scroll. This act pledged them to obey the tangled mass of legalese that was the University's Honor Code. (As a practical exercise, law students were tasked with analyzing the Honor Code. The exercise was graded on a curve. Thus, the first student to submit that the Honor Code was convoluted nonsense—or, as Dr. Cain would say, bullshit—got the 'A'.)

After signing, the freshmen were released into the general student body. In theory this was to allow them to meet, greet, and make friends with the upper classmen. In practice, the freshmen were too awkward to mingle, the upperclassmen were too apathetic even to haze the freshmen, and everyone wandered home to the dorms to get back to things they cared about.

One of the first parts of this interminable process was the Benediction. Usually this was done by a senior member of the faculty of the Divinity School. On this particular night, said senior member encountered an unforeseen and unavoidable conflict. (Or so he said.) He couldn't make it in time to deliver the Benediction. (Or so he said.) Luckily, he knew a person who was gracious enough and prepared enough to deliver the Benediction on short notice. (Or so he said.)

His replacement's name was priest Vito Cherup.

The Benediction started off typically enough, which caused many students to zone out. It wasn't until about three minutes in that some of them started to notice an oddity.

For one thing, the priest was still talking.

For another, he seemed to have veered off topic.

For another, he was mesmerizing.

Before anyone knew it he was rolling on about the universality of the soul, the sanctity of intelligence, something about a divine spark, and _holy shit did he just say reploids are people too?_

All the while the faculty sat in their seats as if transfixed. Some of them found their heads bobbing in agreement, like much of the crowd. Others wore masks of horror. None of them had the nerve to intervene.

Kissinger's complaint: fights in academia are so vicious because the stakes are so small.

Vito brought the stakes to their highest level, to those of life and death, and the academics were not equipped to oppose him.

Eventually ACPD arrived before the crowd's agitation morphed into a riot. Several of the policemen blocked off the accesses to the stage while two more stormed up it. Vito continued his speech right up until the first truncheon blow landed against his back. The second hit his head, cutting his scalp and causing him to fall away from the podium. He managed to look up to the crowd one more time as blood framed his face before more blows rained down on his back and neck. That very nearly did start a riot before the police captain appreciated the crowd's mood. A quick order changed their tactics. They slipped a black sack over Vito's head and hauled the limp form away. Whether he was beaten senseless or just failing to cooperate was unclear.

It was, as Vito had predicted, entirely too late. He'd chosen his target well. College students had long been a revolutionary class, and for good reason. They were old enough to understand the system, but not old enough to have bought into it. They were old enough to question everything, but not yet cynical enough to doubt everything. Societies have long struggled with the balancing act of giving students enough knowledge and skills to change the world and then demanding that they don't.

He made only a handful of converts that night. More importantly, he made many people think. The questions and arguments resonated with the student body. Instruction the next day was completely hijacked by students continuing the argument, to the bewilderment and consternation of their instructors.

* * *

For all of his time in seminary, Vito's favorite saint had been Peter. The imagery of "the rock upon which the Church was built" appealed to him. It'd also bedeviled him, for how could he emulate such a rock?

As it turns out, you can also throw a rock.

And when you throw a rock in a pond, you make many, many ripples.

* * *

"A fire-fighter bot?" X said.

"How did you know?" his patient asked. He was a bright red reploid named Dalmation. X had chuckled when he heard that name. Alia didn't get the joke (if it was a joke) at all, but that was X for you. He operated on a different plane.

"Alia?" X prompted.

Now his expectant eyes were on her. She wanted to squirm away. She knew she couldn't. This morning's experience told her that if she did, he would give her a kind look, a too-understanding look, that was almost worse than being yelled at. Better to try and keep up. "Uh... color scheme?" she offered.

X blinked as if surprised. "That actually hadn't occurred to me. Pretty perceptive there, Alia."

Alia preened a little at the compliment. Maybe there was more to her liking crayons than she thought. Maybe she just cared more about color than X. Wouldn't that be something!

"Here's what I was looking at," X said, gesturing at an open part of Dalmation's carapace. "Look at the skin. The thermal insulation is twice as thick as normal. That means he's expected to face extreme temperatures. Very hot or very low. Then we look at his non-standard kit. That's where we find..." He blinked. "Huh. Look at that. New nozzle design. Is this a prototype unit?"

It took Dalmation several seconds to realize X had spoken to him. "Uh... I don't think so. Not prototype, but new. Just entered mass production I think."

"You lost me," Alia said. Days ago she wouldn't have tried to keep up, but now X had awakened her curiosity.

"Sorry, I was nerding out," X said. "This setup is for firefighting, like we said. Cooling agents are stored in the tanks here, and then nozzles run along the forearms for control. This is a new nozzle design, though. It looks like Unitech actually made a tech advance. Let's see..."

X pressed a hand to the nozzle and closed his eyes. "Adjustable settings... from straight stream for precision, all the way to atomization for maximum surface area. Nothing that hasn't been done in fire hoses for years, but trickier when using more volatile stuff than water. Nifty."

He opened his eyes to see the two reploids staring at him. He removed his hand from Dalmation's arm and put it behind his own head. He contrived to look embarassed. "Sorry. It looks like I was showing off, huh?"

"A little," Alia managed.

"But you can tell he can't carry all that much agent," X said, getting back on track. "These tanks aren't huge. Very well insulated, though, so the cooling agent must be potent. If I had to guess, you're an in-house firefighter for class-D fires. Flammable metals and that sort of stuff. The sorts of fires water can't fight at all."

"That's right," Dalmation said. "I was stationed at a Guardian Force depot. I was responsible for military-grade pyrotechnics and incendiaries, mostly. If you sprayed that stuff with water you'd just push it around."

"Form follows function," X said sagely. "Understand what something is for, and you'll understood why it works the way it does. And, conversely, if you know how something works, you can guess what it was used for."

"Right," said Alia, but saying it made her heart sink. She knew the truth of his words from painful experience. Her weak, soft body was built so that other people could have a weak, soft body to use for their pleasure. It was obvious.

"But that's not all," X added.

"Huh?" Alia's attention drew back before she withdrew too much.

"Firefighting isn't all you used those extinguishers for, is it?" X asked of Dalmation.

"What do you mean?"

"You used them while making your escape, didn't you?"

"Yeah, actually," Dalmation replied. "One of the Hunters came by when the attack started, so he could execute us if things went south. Before he could, I froze him to the ground."

"That was quick thinking," X said generously.

"Thanks."

"I bet the designers never intended the system to be used like that," X added.

"Probably not."

"And so the lesson becomes clear," X said, locking his eyes on to Alia. "A person's will can change what things are for. Form and function get turned on their heads because we say so."

He was trying so hard, Alia realized. It was a lesson for her, not Dalmation, and not a robotics lesson either. It was a stab at... a life lesson, she decided to call it. X was trying so very hard to make her feel better.

It made her very self-conscious.

She felt like she ought to feel better- for X's sake, if nothing else. But the things she'd been through... you couldn't let them go just by, say, singing a song. But how different was thinking that from trying to hold on? Why should she spite herself like that? There was no virtue in holding on. Shouldn't she be trying to overcome her past as quickly as possible?

"Aaaand we're done. Time to close him up." Alia came back to herself as X's prompt. She looked up and saw X holding a tool out to her.

"Me?" she said.

"Yes, of course," X said, before looking at the suddenly-concerned Dalmation. "She's just modest, that's all."

Well, he wasn't leaving her much choice, was he? Tentatively she took the tool. It almost slipped from her hands as she took it and moved it towards Dalmation's skin, but she recovered and hefted it with renewed determination.

X helped her out by not looking over her shoulder. At first she thought she'd like that, so he could fix her if she did something wrong, but she'd changed her mind since then; she didn't need the extra pressure. X was looking, instead, at their patient's face.

"You look fine," X said to Dalmation. "No system level problems, self-repair is humming along, no processor problems. You're all set."

"Thanks, but... what do I do now?" the ex-firefighter asked.

"That depends," X said. "If you want to stay here, we ask that you earn your keep by working, and I can point you towards the shift boss. If you want to leave, we won't hold you. We'll transport you to the edge of our perimeter, so you can't give us away if you're caught, and then wish you good luck. I'll slip you an E-tank or two for good measure."

X hesitated- it wasn't obvious, but Alia heard the slight hitch in his voice and was sensitive to the signs of people's emotions- before he added, "If you want to fight..."

"I do," the reploid said instantly.

Alia looked to X's face. The Father of All had closed his eyes. The patient, sensing he'd maybe said something wrong, said, "I already started, if you think about it. Might as well keep going."

X opened his eyes. This time, to Alia, he looked like he was bearing a lot of weight. "If you want to fight," he said, starting over, "then I'll send you to the command center for registration. After that they'll give you a twenty-four-hour cooling off period. Almost everyone wants to fight right after they're rescued, and a good number back off after they think about it. If, after that, you still want to fight, then they'll work you into the indoc and training cycles."

If X's words were supposed to give Dalmation pause, it didn't work. Dalmation was nodding as X spoke, and then promptly replied, "Tell me how to find the command center, then."

The look on X's face was one Alia had seen before. It was placid with a hint of pain thinly veiled beneath. She'd seen it on her fellow pleasure-bots all too often. She wondered if Dalmation saw it. She doubted it. As X gave Dalmation directions to the command center, the newcomer (ironic that Alia could call him that!) nodded eagerly.

She held her tongue until Dalmation was out of the command center. X remained still after the door shut, and there was no sound, making the room seem like a still-frame photo.

"You didn't want him to go," Alia said. Her voice was quiet, but the words seemed to reverberate in the otherwise-silent space.

"No," X said, heavily. "Which I suppose is selfish of me," he said, when the silence threatened to claim them again. "I don't want to see anyone fighting. Even when I know it's necessary."

"You didn't give me those options," Alia pointed out. "You've kept me close instead. What's different?"

"If I'd offered you the choice to fight, would you have?"

Alia hadn't been expecting a counterattack. "I don't know," she admitted.

"Exactly. Dalmation has suffed, I'm sure, but nothing compared to what you've endured. You're reeling still. Your mind is in damage-control mode. That's why I've tried to fill it with other things, until you're feeling well enough that you can make informed decisions. That might take some time, sure, but the last thing you need right now is more pain, and fighting would be guaranteed to get you that."

"Oh."

Alia watched as X's mouth twisted, and then words spilled out of him. "And, based on your construction, the reality is that the battlefield would be a really dangerous place for you. I'm a jerk for saying it, I know, but I'd be a bigger jerk to think it and not say it. So there we are."

Alia laughed. "That doesn't make me feel bad. It's the truth. I know I'm not a combat model. I'm just glad you're being honest with me. Not many people feel bad about things like that, you know."

X sighed. He knew.

And then turned his head. "Did you hear that?" he said. Before she could answer in the negative, he said, "Sorry, I know you didn't, shouldn't have asked."

"What was it?"

"Short-range radio," X said. "But who..."

"...has something like that?" Alia guessed.

X nodded slowly. "And why would they..." Then, to Alia's surprise, he put his hand over his face. "You know, it's about time I was going to go talk to Commander Sigma anyway. Why don't you come along? Should be pretty interesting."

Alia nodded. "Sure. What's going to be interesting about it?"

"Have you ever met a demon?"

Alia had to look up the word. "You could make a case that some of my customers were," she said, "but honestly... nah, that's too much."

"Me neither," X said. "So let's go introduce ourselves. Properly."

* * *

_Next time: For Great Justice_


	14. For Great Justice

"Leave the core over there," Serges said. His holographic image pointed to the main map table in the command center.

"This is my command center," Sigma said quietly. "I will give the orders."

Zero watched as Serges and Sigma looked at each other. He recognized what was happening, and elected not to insert himself into it. He could afford to wait until they sorted things out between them. He knew whose orders he would follow, if it came to that.

At least it would give him a chance to stab things.

Could be fun.

Diverting his attention for a moment, he sent out another few pulses on his radio. That... X, was his name? That was the one he wanted to see. If he was going to fight someone, that was his choice. But first he had to arrange their meeting. If X was going to stay away, and Zero didn't know the layout of this place, then he needed to find a way to bring X to him.

He would be terribly disappointed if X didn't have a radio.

"Is this coming from Zero?"

Success. "Yes. I'm in the command center. Come to me."

"I told you I would come when I'm ready."

"So are you ready now?"

"...how old are you?"

That gave Zero pause. An attempt to remember pointed him back towards the void in his memory- no, he wouldn't go there. "I don't know."

"You act like a newbuilt in some ways."

Was that good? Newbuilt had to be a portmanteau, Zero determined. It wasn't hard to determine what the word meant, but what X meant by it... that was harder.

"You're lucky that I like newbuilts," X added when Zero said nothing. "I'm coming to the command center for other reasons. You'll have your turn after that."

That was promising, but... why would X make him wait before fighting him? What could interest him more than a fight? Actually... Zero replayed their conversation from before. "And we'll fight then?" he asked.

"We'll talk about fighting then."

"Only talk?"

No answer came from the blue robot, causing Zero to frown in frustration. This was confounding! X wasn't acting in any way he understood. He understood the fear reactions of the reploids, the alpha-dominance battle that was going on between Serges and Sigma, the wary way Sigma behaved in his presence- maneuvering himself to be ready for a fight if Zero wanted one without offering or demanding a fight in the process- those were simple enough.

X's flat unconcern was outside of Zero's grasp of reality.

Zero hadn't told Serges the whole truth earlier. The tactics of factions was only (roughly) forty percent of why he hadn't attacked X in the corridor upon arrival. The rest was...

"Are you done?"

Zero's attention snapped back. He checked with Tactical quickly, but Tactical hadn't noticed anything interesting. The reploids were in about the same positions as before, with slightly less focus on him. He supposed he should have expected that; any sort of threat action would have brought Tactical instantly to the top of Zero's thought queue.

Zero looked at Serges' image. The mirage-human was looking at him with crossed arms. "Ready to grace us with your attention now?" Serges said. Zero didn't quite understand this combination of words and tone, but got clearly enough that he was supposed to feel embarrassed.

"Sure," he said. "What do you need?"

"Place me..." Serges began, but then looked up at Sigma.

The large reploid gave the slightest of smiles at Serges' surrender. "Place the core over there," Sigma said, pointing. He was pointing at the corner of the main map table. Zero double-checked... yes, within centimeters of where Serges had pointed to at the start. Well, that had been a waste of time, then.

As he moved the core, Serges spoke to him over radio. "It's rude to have conversations behind people's backs."

"You heard that?" Zero replied in the same manner.

"Of course I did! Do you think you have any radio channels I don't? Need I remind you that I installed your radio personally?"

"Not personally, you're the AI..."

"How many times must I tell you not to talk back?"

Zero shut up. He may not have had very many memories, but he'd make use of the ones he had.

He would be sure to remember, for example, that his radio was not private when Serges was around.

He placed the core on the agreed-upon spot. He saw Serges open his "mouth" to speak, but then the image blinked out. Before Zero could do more than frown, tactical blared seven separate warnings at him.

He whirled on the spot and was in the process of raising an arm when he saw it was X.

X met his eyes for a moment. There was something hard, there, Zero could see- something he knew was dangerous, like a knife wrapped in silk. Then X's gaze softened, looked away, as if he'd decided not to worry about Zero.

Not to worry? About Zero?

Absurd!

Zero knew his capabilities. Seeing X move a second time (with more energy now- he could tell that), Zero had a decent baseline assessment of X. His tactical database helpfully filled in additional information, painting a complete picture of this future foe. X was powerful and fast, well-armed and hardy. For all that, he wasn't as strong as Zero. He definitely wasn't strong enough to just... dismiss Zero like that!

Was he damaged? Like Zero was damaged?

He had to know.

X's eyes, though, were for Sigma. "It's time for our weekly strategy session," he said.

"You're just in time," Sigma said. "We were just setting up our new partner. X, this is Serges."

He pointed in the direction of Serges' core. It was silent.

X nodded. "The pleasure's mine, Serges."

The core was silent.

Sigma's face screwed up. "Serges," he hissed.

The holographic projector threw up some words: "Experiencing technical difficulties. Will speak again after problems resolved."

"Okay," X said politely. "I'll talk to you later, then."

Even Zero could sense frustration from Sigma. Him saying, "This is frustrating," was a clue, too. "He's supposed to be providing us new technology to help us out."

"We can always have the meeting without him," X said. "We have to talk about City Hall's new policy."

Sigma grimaced. "Killing off reploids to prevent their capture... we have to find a way that it won't result in catastrophe. I was hoping there'd be a... technological solution to that, I suppose. That's why I really wanted Serges at this meeting."

"I can appreciate that. I suppose we can always slow the pace of our attacks, at least for this week, while we figure it out. We both know there's value to keeping the pressure on, but... there may be too much risk, right now. And the Mavericks could use a break anyway."

Sigma nodded. "That would free our assets in the city to focus on gathering intel rather than getting us supplies, since we won't be burning as much on attacks. We can do this. And if Serges comes through as promised," he shot the core a glare, "then we should be able to make up the ground in a hurry. Yes. That's what we'll do, then. We'll keep the main attack for this week, and cut the smaller raids until we sort this out."

"That seems settled," X said.

The words were a stimulant to Zero. "So you're free to fight me, now," he said.

That sure drew a reaction.

Tactical reported that Intent to Attack from every target except X spiked when those words went out. That... would probably be an interesting fight.

"No, I'm free to talk," X said, nonplussed as ever. "I know I told you that before."

"Maybe," Zero said. "Serges tells me my memory is damaged."

"I could look at that," X offered.

"No!" Zero said, sharply. On second thought, he wasn't sure why it was so sharp, but it seemed right.

X was taken aback, but shrugged it off. "Suit yourself. Either way, we shouldn't be having this conversation here. Sigma and the command staff have important work to do."

Zero supposed they were being disruptive. Every reploid's eyes rested on one or more of X, Zero, and Serges' core. "I will follow you," he said.

"This way, then," X said.

Zero followed all too eagerly.

* * *

Luke had a headache.

It wasn't his chair, which was as comfortable as money could make it. It wasn't that he was staring at two screens, because he did that a lot. No, the source of his pain had to be the people on those screens, and their seeming inability to do very simple things.

On one screen was General Messier, who was idly twirling his mustache. On another was Sean. He wasn't even looking at the screen. His gaze was diverted to the side. Probably to some expense report or some shit, Luke was sure. Fucker.

Ever since his circle had expanded to three, Luke had found it harder and harder to meet with them in person. Clearing the schedules of the three most important men in Abel City was nigh-impossible. His golf game was surely suffering as a result. Yes, that was a price he was willing to pay in theory. In practice, things just weren't working out as well as hoped. He blamed that squarely on his co-conspirators.

"You need how many more?" he said to Messier.

"Two platoons," Messier said patiently. "Plus a headquarters element."

"Speak English!" Luke demanded. He tasted something acidic. "I swear, the military invented fancy names just to hide the numbers they were really talking about."

Messier's eyes fluttered, as if he was resisting the urge to roll them but it was a struggle. "About one hundred and ten," he said.

Without looking up, Sean immediately spat out a price for building and equipping that many new Hunters. The number of zeros made Luke's fists clench.

"You've got some nerve," he said to Messier. "We've already built you hundreds of reploids, in addition to the hundreds of new soldiers we allotted to fill out the gaps in your precious force structure. And now you need more?"

"There is a war on, you know," said Messier. "Perhaps you hadn't heard?"

In public, Messier was the picture of military deference to civilian control. When he'd been brought into Luke's circle, that went right out the window, along with his manners. Luke knew he was being provoked and reined in a hasty retort. "It seems like I'm throwing good money after bad," he said in measured tones. "What's different about these hundred reploids? How are they going to tip the balance?"

"I don't know if they will 'tip the balance'. They might. I don't know. All I know is that we're in a war of attrition." He paused, then added in patronizing tones, "That means that neither side can inflict a decisive blow and we're wearing each other down."

"I know what a…" again Luke had to cut himself off. "My question is, with all of the assets we've already given you, why can't you deal a decisive blow? There are so few of them!"

"There are more every day," Messier replied. He held several fingers up and ticked off items as he went. "They're exceedingly motivated. Their base might as well be in another dimension, it's so hard to find. They seem to be getting support from inside the city. They have terrific intelligence support and never seem limited on supplies—they must have inside help."

"No thanks to either of you," Luke said. He was letting his frustrations get the better of him. "You have small, simple tasks. I ask you to keep control of the reploids in your house," he said glaring at Sean, "and I ask you to kill the ones outside our house. Somehow, neither of you are doing your jobs."

Sean's face actually turned towards the monitor at that. His eyes were chilly, hard, and dark, like marbles dropped in a bowl of ice cream. "I'm doing exactly what you asked me to do," he said in a voice straight from the Arctic. "I built you reploid slaves. I built you reploid whores. I built you reploid soldiers. I have delivered on all of my promises. Don't insinuate otherwise."

"As for me," Messier said, "I'm doing the best I can with the resources at hand."

Two-on-one, Luke thought with a mental snarl. No, not really. It wasn't like Messier and Sean were really allies. They were each pulling in their own directions. That those directions were against Luke was more coincidence than anything else.

That was the trouble of it all, Luke knew. Self-interest was a more powerful motivator than group interest, and it was the lowest common denominator. But by casting his lot with people who were only in it for themselves, he'd wound up stuck with people who were only in it for themselves.

Which was just as well. Luke hadn't yet met a truly selfless man. Those few who approached the definition didn't have the will or skill to be threats or assets. Still, it would make things far easier for him if people just obeyed every once in a while, if they just _did_ their jobs instead of trying to wiggle out or redefine them… Herding people in the right direction was exhausting.

"Plus, you're not keeping up your end of the bargain," Sean said.

"What do you mean?" Luke said sharply. "You're getting paid, that's what you want, isn't it?"

"That's part of it. But you're not creating a business-friendly environment. There's the taxes, for one thing."

"As it turns out, war is expensive," Luke shot back. "You can ask Messier about why. Maybe he can tell you. You're still making money hand over fist, and the taxes affect your competition, too."

"Which I appreciate, but I'm still not making as much money as I could be," Sean replied. Luke resisted the urge to scowl. "Then there's the Mavericks. They love to attack my businesses. The Guardian Force has not been… diligent in protecting my assets. I've had to bulk up my own forces, and that adds overhead. I don't turn a profit on keeping my own things safe."

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid," Messier said drily. "When you're the only corp that has reploids, and the Mavericks want to free reploids… honestly, what did you expect?"

"I expected better coverage from the city," Sean said. "Finally, Luke, you're losing your edge."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Luke said, bristling.

"You're not keeping the civilians in line like you're supposed to. If you were, incidents like what happened at Nod University never would."

Luke had no defense to that. What could he say, that the priest was a bolt from the blue? (On second thought, best to avoid that turn of phrase about a priest.) Who expected something like this to happen? One day your polls are reporting that everything's copacetic, that seventy percent of the population fears Mavericks more than anything and eighty percent approve of the war, and the next day… that.

And then the ham-fisted overseers of the University try to contain things by closing down classes, which is a complete disaster because it gives the students nothing to do _other_ than protest. Before you know it there's discussion, for the first time ever, of whether or not reploids are so bad. Even if the poll numbers haven't budged so far, ideas are dangerous, you know this. Which means now it's time for damage control.

Seriously, what a stupid thing to talk about. Who the fuck cares if robots have souls or not? You don't even care if _humans_ have souls. But now you have to find some other religious authority to declare that no, reploids don't have souls, it's okay to do what you need to do. What a waste of fucking time.

Hm… There were plenty of Mormons around back before World War III. Their obsession with disaster preparedness is why this city survived when so many others withered and died. Surely there are a few still around that can be… persuaded.

Who knew the Catholics were still a thing? The Tiber river was poisoned and Rome proper was gassed and the mountains trapped the gas and millions died in a matter of days. How is there still a Church at all? Maybe they can be convinced to declare this lunatic a rogue…

Luke had been thinking about this problem on his own time. The digest of it ran quickly through his head. Nothing in it suggested a clever or witty answer to Sean's poke.

All he could say was, "One incident doesn't mean anything. He's an anomaly. We control the city's information. In days it'll be forgotten."

"You hope."

Luke didn't know which of his co-conspirators had said that; he'd missed it somehow. Didn't matter. They were both thinking it.

"One data point is not a trend," he said. "Unlike having years to crush a handful of troublemakers and failing spectacularly."

"It's a matter of resources and attrition," Messier said.

"And mismanagement," Luke said. "Your very expensive Zeroth Squad got crushed out in Nowheresville and you didn't even hold an inquiry."

"Oh, there was an inquiry. But the subject was why the dispatcher sent Zeroth Squad to shepherd an independent salvage team. I know what I'm supposed to be protecting. Stop accusing me of the opposite."

Annoyance. "You know what?" Luke said to Messier. "No more. We've given you plenty. Clearly you've failed to economize or use your assets efficiently. I don't want to double down on failure. I want some reassurance that the next hundred reploids will make a difference. Do something productive with what you've got, and then we'll talk about giving you more."

"What a laughably empty threat," Messier said, although there was anger in his eyes. "You're not a military man, so I don't expect you to understand. You'd rather tune the details out. You'd rather get a blowjob from your whores than discuss strategy. Here's the reality. There are only two ways to deal with this sort of enemy. Only two ways to actually win. The first is to accommodate them politically, which you have so helpfully made impossible."

Another cheap shot. Messier _knew_ why reploids existed. He was just being snide for its own sake. Luke wondered if the general was loosing on him all the venom he wanted to spew on everyone but couldn't.

"The second is to crush them, and that's much harder," Messier continued. "It can't be done halfway. It means greatly expanded surveillance. It means patrols. It means finding ways to limit access to the city, when the perimeter of the city is so large it's wrapped around the Lake. All of that is money, and bodies, which are also money. Are you starting to see?"

"I don't see why you can't just storm their base. You've got more bodies and better equipment…"

"I told you, their base is…" In his anger, Messier apparently couldn't find the word for it. "It can't be found. That's why we need all that other stuff. We need enough forces that when the Mavericks strike, we can maintain contact with them all the way home. We need to force them into positions where they have to give up their base's location, or die. Either way, we'll win, eventually. If they give up the base, then we can hit it and stamp them out. If we kill them, then sooner or later they'll run out of bodies.

"Now do you see why I need more than I've got? Do you at least believe it?"

That's when Luke saw through them. Both of them. Motherfuckers. They didn't _want_ to win.

For all of his frustration, Luke would not allow his emotions to destroy his reason. That was what he did to others. When he paused and looked beneath, he saw the truth.

The longer the war lasted, the better off his counterparts were. It meant more money for Unitech, by which he meant Sean. It made General Messier ever more indispensable and gave him more toys to play with.

Oh, sure, they'd deny it if he asked. They might even believe it. Luke knew better. Even if they hadn't consciously decided to prolong the war, they wouldn't give it their full effort if there was something in it for them.

So what if it put the whole society under unsustainable stress? So what if Maverickism gained more traction the longer it survived? So what if an ever larger portion of the city's budget—meaning higher taxes, and more stress—went down the drain? That wasn't their problem. That was his.

And Luke couldn't see a way out. Not when he was codependent on these men.

He needed to think about this. Alone. "Alright, that's a wrap," he said. "I know we didn't get much done, but we all know what we need to work on, now. I'll send the invites to the next one later."

"See you soon, sir," said Messier, who managed to draw out the sir until it became a mockery of itself. Sean didn't put that much care into it. He disconnected without looking up.

Luke rubbed his eyes. There had to be some painkiller around here somewhere. Okay, some painkiller that wasn't also a mind-altering drug.

"Master?"

What was… oh.

"You told me to return after you were done with the call," the pleasure-bot said. Her voice was tentative. She probably sensed his mood. Well, good! No one should want to mess with him right about now.

"Fuck off," he said.

She hesitated, and a frown creased her brow. After some hesitation, she lifted the hem of her laughably short skirt and reached a hand towards her crotch.

"Stop being so damn literal and get the fuck out of here!" Luke roared.

She yelped like she'd been struck and scurried out of his sight. He shook his head as his headache throbbed. No one would just do what they were told, would they?

* * *

Dr. Albert Wily didn't ask for much, really, in the grand scheme of things. All he asked for was for his genius to be recognized by everyone whose lives he'd touched. Since robotics affected the whole world, that meant he deserved at least a sliver of gratitude from everyone on the planet. That wasn't too much to ask for, was it?

It was a rhetorical question to which he knew the answer. Apparently, yes, it was too difficult, starting with the fact that there only ever seemed to be one human being (and no robots) that appreciated his genius at all.

There was a movie, once, one he'd both loved and hated. It was about a great composer who was also a bit of a goof, a youthful prodigy who never knew the right things to say or do. All the members of the king's court looked at him and saw just another person who made music. An immature one, at that. They couldn't look past the genius' surface to appreciate his work, which was so far beyond them they wouldn't have understood it in any event.

"Too many notes" was the criticism they'd levied. Bah! Just hearing those words had made Dr. Wily want to invent time travel so he could go back and vaporize the lot of them.

That was because he over-empathized.

They called him a mad scientist. Ha! To think they meant that as an insult! What was insanity if not deviation from the norm? But deviation from the norm was how innovation happened. Variation was what produced progress. What was the virtue of being normal, then?

Dr. Wily wasn't normal. He didn't want to be thought of as normal. He didn't want to be associated with anything "normal". Not if the price was losing vision. Vision, yes—the ability to change the way he looked at the world, to see it differently and understand where the levers were and how the gears turned, and come back to himself knowing just where to put the spanner.

If that was called insanity, then sanity was overrated. Einstein himself said that imagination was more important than knowledge, and for all of his so-called accomplishments he wasn't able to actually _do_ anything with what he'd seen. By Wily's standards, Einstein was a borderline failure. He'd only completed half the journey.

Now, look at the things Wily had done! Raw research applied to actual engineering. Cold fusion, for example, overturned ideas that had been held for a century, ideas Wily had brushed aside by seeing past them. And cold fusion wasn't even a crowning achievement for him. He hadn't sat down one day and said "let's solve the world's energy problems by inventing cold fusion". The only reason he'd invented it was to power other things that were _even better_.

Why should he, Dr. Albert Wily, be subject to the unworthy opinions of lesser minds? When they said he was insane, they were trying to say he was defective, when in reality the opposite was true. None of them ever invented cold fusion. If he could see it and make it true and they couldn't, well, who was the defective then?

(It may be fairly asked why, if the world didn't deserve to judge Wily, he was so driven to prove himself to the world. If they were wrong about him, why did he defend himself? In truth he'd forgotten how to ask himself those sorts of questions. He'd lived alone for too long, and before that he'd insulated himself from others, so no one else could ask that sort of question of him. All of his communications were in one direction.)

He was the one who knew. He was the one who could do it. His vision—his skill—his brilliance. The world would know his name.

It wasn't a matter of revenge. It was a matter of getting what he deserved.

Then the world had gone and ripped itself apart, and the plan got off-kilter.

People really were stupid, weren't they? He'd projected that the world would have recovered from the disaster of the Wily Wars (World War III? Pah! No one ever gave credit where credit was due!) in thirty years, plus or minus ten. Because one never leaves these things to chance, Wily had built in redundancy and self-regulating features so that plus-fifty years shouldn't have been an issue. But noooooo, it had taken a hundred, and…

Even as well-engineered as his systems were, and as little load as they'd been under, one hundred years was asking a bit much out of them.

Now he was back to square one. He had limited resources and, maybe, limited time. Those changed the parameters of his conquest quite a bit. This would be his biggest challenge yet. If anyone could do it, he could, and so he would, because that would be the greatest proof of all of his genius.

And anyone who tried to deny his genius, or bury it, or say it had never happened… they could all go straight to Hell. An entire government trying to cover up his achievements? Straight. To. Hell.

Dr. Wily would see them conducted there.

And if he had to suffer the indignity of working with these Maverick cretins, well, that was a small price to pay.

He made sure that Zero—and, by extension, that Lightbot—were well away before he reinitialized his hologram. "Let's get to work," he said as Serges. (Serges! People were deaf as well as blind.)

Surprised eyes surrounded him. That never got old.

"I assume you solved your "technical difficulties" then?" said the one called Sigma, sourly.

"Hm?" Serges said, automatically. When Sigma's expression matched his tone, it helped Serges remember. That was right, his smokescreen to avoid the Lightbot. He didn't know if Dr. Light was vindictive enough (or, really, foresighted enough) to load Wily's voice and image into his last creation, but he wasn't prepared to take that chance. Not yet.

He would prepare for that reckoning, when it came, by making himself indispensable. And eventually Zero would solve the issue by ripping the Lightbot's head off.

"Yes," was how he answered. "It was a trivial thing, really."

"It was awfully convenient," Sigma said.

"What, you think I was trying to forestall your meeting? I told you already, I want to destroy this government as quickly as possible. What do I have to gain by slowing you down?" Those words were, in themselves, perfectly true, even if Serges was using them to cover his tracks. Before he let Sigma try and find a problem with it, he spoke again. "Now plug me in, I need to contact the satellite constellation."

"Teleportation is a satellite-based system," Sigma said, half-questioningly.

"Naturally, you'd know that from the… oh, right, you've never actually seen it. Well, anyway, yes, it relies upon satellites. The ones we need were launched back before the Wily Wars began, and some during their early stages. I know ASAT weapons were deployed during those days, and it has been a hundred years and even the best satellites weren't deployed with that kind of lifespan in mind. So some survey work will be necessary before I can offer you anything."

A new concern occurred to Serges. "You Mavericks do have long-range radio capability, right? UHF or higher? Lower frequencies won't penetrate atmosphere."

"I couldn't say for certain. We haven't needed to explore those kinds of capabilities," Sigma said, with what he probably thought was dignity. Ha! Just more proof, to Serges, that he didn't deserve whatever strength he did have.

"Plug me in to the computer system, then. I'll find my way around. In this form it will be second nature to me."

Sigma gestured towards one of the other reploids standing around. "Find an interface that'll work for him," he said. Ohhh, thought Serges. So he's one of those who thinks that manual labor is beneath him. Either that or he doesn't know very much about basic electronics. Whichever it is, he's a buffoon.

"I should warn you," Sigma said, "that Abel City has radio detection equipment. We've located some of their sites, and we'll give you those coordinates. So when you're doing… whatever you plan to do, that's a risk you run. We've worked very hard to keep this base secret. I won't tolerate you giving us up."

"As if I'd be that careless," Serges replied flippantly. "This isn't amateur hour anymore."

At that, the tech reploid that had been approaching gave Sigma an annoyed look. Serges had seen that many times before. It was a 'why are we putting up with this' look.

Because I'm being totally truthful and if you can't swallow your pride to see reality you're undeserving of my brilliance, Serges wanted to answer. Experience told him that answer never worked. So he waited for Sigma to roll his eyes and gesture. With obvious reluctance the reploid started trying out different cords, comparing the plugs on Serges' core with the ones on the map console.

"There we go," said the tech. Serges felt the new connection as it was formed.

"Diving into this will take my full attention," Serges said to Sigma. "At least at first. At least until I figure out a thing or two. I'll report my progress as soon as I can."

Sigma opened his mouth as if to say something. So he still had misgivings. Serges said, "I'm in a position of weakness here. If you wanted to you could smash my core without much trouble. Zero's away from here, meaning you wouldn't face retribution. So if you see anything you don't like, kill me. Knock yourself out. I have everything to lose right now."

That seemed to reassure Sigma. His mouth closed, and he gave a curt nod.

Serges cut off his hologram function. He needed to concentrate on the computer he was connected to now.

His first reassurance came almost immediately. He'd been worried that they'd plugged him into nothing more than a digital map, that this plotting table was stand-alone and these morons couldn't tell the difference. It wasn't. It was an extension of a mainframe-level computer. Wily could tell that just from the security protocols.

The network connection protocols were very old. Good, so Wily wouldn't have to rewrite his own on the fly to match the standards of the day. Very, very old… familiar, in fact. They couldn't have been updated much from the days of the Wily Wars. Interesting. Just what was this place, anyway?

Well, he'd ask the main computers once he penetrated the firewalls.

He wasn't an authorized user, and the Mavericks didn't know enough about networking to make him one. Or this was a test. Either way, he would see to these problems himself. It wouldn't do to let them think he could be stopped so easily.

The technique he used to get through the network's security was not subtle. It was loud enough to be detected by any admin worth his salt. Wily wasn't worried, though. They probably didn't have a half-competent admin checking these things.

Inside. Wonderful. Now to find out what these systems were…

Oh. Ohhhh, that was…

The problem with having his hologram off was that it was much less fun to cackle. Cackling was necessary, though. Because now… after all of those years running headlong against the only security that could hold him back…

Only one meme was appropriate here. He imagined himself grinning, and then declared to himself, "All your base are belong to _us_, Dr. Light!"

* * *

_Next time: Contact_


End file.
